streets of hospitals, its
long lines of huts, its training-grounds, and the bodies of men at work
upon them. Here, the war came home to her, as a vast machine by which
George, like millions of others, had been caught and crushed. She
shuddered to think of it.

At intervals Sarratt still spoke a good deal, though rarely after their
third day together. He asked her once--'Dear, did you ever send for my
letter?' She paused a moment to think. 'You mean the letter you left for
me--in case?' He made a sign of assent, and then smiled into the face
bending over him. 'Read it again, darling. I mean it all now, as I did
then.' She could only kiss him softly--without tears. After the first
day she never cried.

On the last night of his life, when she thought that all speech was
over, and that she would never hear his voice, or see a conscious look,
again, he opened his eyes suddenly, and she heard--'I love you,
sweetheart! I love you, sweetheart!' twice over. That was the last
sound. Towards midnight he died.

Next morning Cicely wrote to Farrell:--

'We are coming home to-morrow after they bury him in the cemetery here.
Please get Hester--_whatever she may be doing_--to throw it up, and come
and meet us. She is the only person who can help Nelly now for a bit
Nelly pines for Rydal--where they were together. She would go to
Hester's cottage. Tell Hester.

'Why, old boy, do such things happen? That's what I keep asking--not
being a saint, like these dear nurses here, who really have been
angelic. I am the only one who rebels. George Sarratt was so patient--so
terribly patient! And Nelly is just crushed--for the moment, though I
sometimes expect to see a strange energy in her before long. But I keep
knocking my head all day, and part of the night--the very small part
that I'm not asleep--against the questions that everybody seems to have
asked since the world began--and I know that I am a fool, and go on
doing it.

'George Sarratt, I think, was a simple Christian, and died like one. He
seemed to like the Chaplain, which was a comfort. How much any of that
means to Nelly I don't know.'

She also wrote to Marsworth:--

'Meet us, please, at Charing Cross. I have no spirit to answer your last
letters as they deserve. But I give you notice that I don't thrive on
too sweet a diet--and praise is positively bad for me. It wrinkles me up
the wrong way.

'What can be done about that incredible sister? She ought to know that
Nell