have been too quick in anger sometimes--forgive it," she said gently.
"And do not fight and curse among yourselves; it is bad amid brethren.
Bury my Cross with me, if they will let you; and let the colours be over
my grave, if you can. Think of me when you go into battle; and tell them
in France"----

For the first time her own eyes filled with great tears as the name of
her beloved land paused upon her lips; she stretched her arms out with a
gesture of infinite longing, like a lost child that vainly seeks its
mother.

"If I could only see France once more! France"----

It was the last word upon her utterance; her eyes met Cecil's in one
fleeting upward glance of unutterable tenderness; then with her hands
still stretched out westward to where her country was, and with the
dauntless heroism of her smile upon her face like light, she gave a
tired sigh as of a child that sinks to sleep, and in the midst of her
Army of Africa the Little One lay dead.

_STRATHMORE._

The sun was setting, sinking downward beyond purple bars of cloud, and
leaving a long golden trail behind it in its track--sinking slowly and
solemnly towards the west as the day declined, without rest, yet without
haste, as though to give to all the sons of earth warning and time to
leave no evil rooted, no bitterness unhealed, no feud to ripen, and no
crime to bring forth seed, when the day should have passed away to be
numbered with hours irrevocable, and the night should cast its pall over
the dark deeds done, and seal their graves never to be unclosed. The sun
was setting, and shedding its rich and yellow light over the green
earth, on the winding waters, and the blue hills afar off, and down the
thousand leafy aisles close by; but to one place that warm radiance
wandered not, in one spot the rays did not play, the glory did not
enter. That place was the deer-pond of the old Bois, where the dark
plants brooding on the fetid waters, which only stirred with noisome
things, had washed against the floating hair of lifeless women, and the
sombre branches of the crowding trees had been dragged earthward by the
lifeless weight of the self-slain, till the air seemed to be poisonous
with death, and the grasses, as they moved, to whisper to the winds
dread secrets of the Past. And here the light of the summer evening did
not come, but only through the leafless boughs of one seared tree, which
broke and parted the dark barrier of forest growth, they saw