o her mind, overwhelming her with its
significance. The letter she had written to Roger--she couldn't send
it now! Common humanity forbade that it should go. It would have to
wait--wait till Roger had recovered. The disappointment, cutting
across a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp and
bitter.

Very slowly she made her way upstairs. The letter, which she still
clasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron. She felt
as though she could not unclench the hand which held it. But this
phase only lasted for a few minutes. When she reached her room she
opened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.

She stared at it blankly. That letter--which had meant so much to
her--could not be sent! She might have to wait weeks--months even,
before it could go. And meanwhile, she would be compelled to
pretend--pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must be
hidden from him till he recovered. Then, swift as the thrust of a
knife, another thought followed. . . . Suppose--suppose Roger _never_
recovered? . . . What was it Sandy had said? An injury to the spine.
Did people recover from spinal injury? Or did they linger on, wielding
those terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health and
strength?

Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying to
realise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger might
entail for her. Because if it left him crippled--a hopeless
invalid--the letter she had written could never be sent at all. She
could not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herself
represented all that was left to him in life.

It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour had
elapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase,
and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst into
the room. Her face was alight with joyful excitement. In her hand she
held an open telegram.

"Listen, Nan! Oh"--seeing the other's startled, apprehensive
face--"it's _good_ news this time!"

Good news! Nan stared at her with an expression of impassive
incredulity. There was no good news that could come to her.

"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can't
help it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia
died yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan, _dearest_! I'm so glad for you--so
glad for you and Peter!"

Nan, who had ris