as crying like a little frightened child, and her lips were
wet with his tears. "Bear it bravely," she told him.

"I can't," he whispered. "It isn't to be done. I can't see you," and
passed from her trembling with open eyes.

She rode home on her bicycle, leaving the others to follow. Some ladies
who did not know what had happened bowed and smiled as she passed, and
she returned their salute.

"Oh, miss, is it true?" cried the cook, her face streaming with tears.

Agnes nodded. Presumably it was true. Letters had just arrived: one
was for Gerald from his mother. Life, which had given them no warning,
seemed to make no comment now. The incident was outside nature, and
would surely pass away like a dream. She felt slightly irritable, and
the grief of the servants annoyed her.

They sobbed. "Ah, look at his marks! Ah, little he thought--little he
thought!" In the brown holland strip by the front door a heavy football
boot had left its impress. They had not liked Gerald, but he was a man,
they were women, he had died. Their mistress ordered them to leave her.

For many minutes she sat at the foot of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. An
obscure spiritual crisis was going on.

Should she weep like the servants? Or should she bear up and trust in
the consoler Time? Was the death of a man so terrible after all? As she
invited herself to apathy there were steps on the gravel, and Rickie
Elliot burst in. He was splashed with mud, his breath was gone, and
his hair fell wildly over his meagre face. She thought, "These are the
people who are left alive!" From the bottom of her soul she hated him.

"I came to see what you're doing," he cried.

"Resting."

He knelt beside her, and she said, "Would you please go away?"

"Yes, dear Agnes, of course; but I must see first that you mind." Her
breath caught. Her eves moved to the treads, going outwards, so firmly,
so irretrievably.

He panted, "It's the worst thing that can ever happen to you in all
your life, and you've got to mind it you've got to mind it. They'll come
saying, 'Bear up trust to time.' No, no; they're wrong. Mind it."

Through all her misery she knew that this boy was greater than they
supposed. He rose to his feet, and with intense conviction cried: "But
I know--I understand. It's your death as well as his. He's gone, Agnes,
and his arms will never hold you again. In God's name, mind such a
thing, and don't sit fencing with your soul. Don't stop being great;
th