used it, while the invalid kept watch on
his face. Rooks cawed out in the playing-fields, and close under the
window there was the sound of delightful, good-tempered laughter. A boy
is no devil, whatever boys may be. The letters were chilly productions,
somewhat clerical in tone, by whomsoever written. Varden, because he was
ill at the time, had been taken seriously. The writers declared that
his illness was fulfilling some mysterious purpose: suffering engendered
spiritual growth: he was showing signs of this already. They consented
to pray for him, some majestically, others shyly. But they all consented
with one exception, who worded his refusal as follows:--

Dear A.C. Varden,--

I ought to say that I never remember seeing you. I am sorry that you are
ill, and hope you are wrong about it. Why did you not write before, for
I could have helped you then? When they pulled your ear, you ought to
have gone like this (here was a rough sketch). I could not undertake
praying, but would think of you instead, if that would do. I am
twenty-two in April, built rather heavy, ordinary broad face, with eyes,
etc. I write all this because you have mixed me with some one else, for
I am not married, and do not want to be. I cannot think of you always,
but will promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7.00-7.15 A.M.), and
might come to see you when you are better--that is, if you are a kid,
and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting--

Yours sincerely,

Stephen Wonham

XXIII

Riekie went straight from Varden to his wife, who lay on the sofa in her
bedroom. There was now a wide gulf between them. She, like the world she
had created for him, was unreal.

"Agnes, darling," he began, stroking her hand, "such an awkward little
thing has happened."

"What is it, dear? Just wait till I've added up this hook."

She had got over the tragedy: she got over everything.

When she was at leisure he told her. Hitherto they had seldom mentioned
Stephen. He was classed among the unprofitable dead.

She was more sympathetic than he expected. "Dear Rickie," she murmured
with averted eyes. "How tiresome for you."

"I wish that Varden had stopped with Mrs. Orr."

"Well, he leaves us for good tomorrow."

"Yes, yes. And I made him answer the letter and apologize. They had
never met. It was some confusion with a man in the Church Army, living
at a place called Codford. I asked the nurse. It is all explained."

"There the matter ends