d was enchantment--the drip of water from the oars, the hooting of
an owl on the island, even the occasional distant voices, and tapping of
horses' feet on the main road bordering the lake.

Sarratt let the oars drift, and the boat glided, as though of its own
will, past the island, and into the shadow beyond it. Now it was Silver
How, and all the Grasmere mountains, that caught the 'hallowing' light.

Nelly sat bare-headed, her elbows on her knees, and her face propped in
her hands. She was in white, with a white shawl round her, and the grace
of the slight form and dark head stirred anew in Sarratt that astonished
and exquisite sense of possession which had been one of the main
elements of consciousness, during their honeymoon. Of late indeed it had
been increasingly met and wrestled with by something harsher and
sterner; by the instinct of the soldier, of the fighting man, foreseeing
a danger to his own will, a weakening of the fibre on which his effort
and his power depend. There were moments when passionately as he loved
her, he was glad to be going; secretly glad that the days which were in
truth a greater test of endurance than the trenches were coming to an
end. He must be able to trust himself and his own nerve to the utmost.
Away from her, love would be only a strengthening power; here beside
her, soul and sense contended.

A low voice came out of the shadow.

'George--I'm not going with you to the station.'

'Best not, dearest--much best.'

A silence. Then the voice spoke again.

'How long will it take you, George, getting to the front?'

'About twenty-four hours from the base, perhaps more. It's a weary
business.'

'Will you be in action at once?'

'I think so. That part of the line's very short of men.'

'When shall I hear?'

He laughed.

'By every possible post, I should think, darling. You've given me
post-cards enough.'

And he tapped his breast-pocket, where lay the little writing-case she
had furnished for every imaginable need.

'George!'

'Yes, darling.'

'When you're tired, you're--you're not to write.'

He put out his long arms, and took her hands in his.

'I shan't be tired--and I shall write.'

She looked down upon the hands holding hers. In each of the little
fingers there was a small amusing deformity--a slight crook or
twist--which, as is the way of lovers, was especially dear to her. She
remembered once, before they were engaged, flaming out at Bridget, who
had made