had brought exhaustion.

'Darling--we must go home!' He bent over her.

She rose feebly.

'Why am I so tired? It's absurd.'

'Let me carry you a little.'

'You couldn't!' She smiled at him.

But he lifted her with ease--she was so small and slight, while in him a
fresh wave of youth and strength had risen, with happiness, and the
reaction of convalescence. She made no resistance, and he carried her
down some way, through the broad mingled light. Her face was hidden on
his breast, and felt the beating of his life. She said to herself more
than once that to die so would be bliss. The marvel of love bewildered
her. 'What was I like before it?--what shall I be, when he is gone?'

When she made him set her down, she said gaily that she was all right,
and gave him a kiss of thanks, simply, like a child. The valley lay
before them with its scattered lights, and they pressed on through the
twilight--two dim and spectral figures--spirits it seemed, who had been
on the heights sharing ambrosial feasts with the Immortals, and had but
just descended to the common earth again.

* * * * *

Nelly spent the next three days, outside their walks and boatings on the
lake, in whatever wifely offices to her man still remained to
her--marking his new socks and khaki shirts, furnishing a small medicine
chest, and packing a tin of special delicacies, meat lozenges,
chocolate, various much advertised food tabloids, and his favourite
biscuits. Sarratt laughed over them, but had not the heart to dissuade
her. She grew paler every day, but was always gay and smiling so long as
his eyes were on her; and his sound young sleep knew nothing of her
quiet stifled weeping at those moments of the night, when the bodily and
nervous forces are at their lowest, and all the future blackens. Miss
Martin paid them several visits, bringing them books and flowers. Books
and flowers too arrived from Carton--with a lavish supply of cigarettes
for the departing soldier. Nelly had the piteous sense that everyone was
sorry for her--Mrs. Weston, the kind landlady, Milly, the little
housemaid. It seemed to her sometimes that the mere strangers she met in
the road knew that George was going, and looked at her compassionately.

The last day came, showery in the morning, and clearing to a glorious
evening, with all the new leaf and growing hayfields freshened by rain,
and all the streams brimming. Bridget came over in the afternoo