"It must have been that brute that ran out from Barker's under Starlight's feet the other day, then," he called, and was off. Nell stood by the gate and watched him till he joined his friend, and, in spite of the faster falling rain, she watched him still. Before they reached the bend of the road Ted turned his head; she waved a gay hand to him, and he, hesitating for a moment, wheeled round and bicycled back. "Did you call me, Nell?" he said. Of course she had not called. "Bob knew you hadn't, but I thought I heard you call; and then you held up your hand and beckoned me." "Nonsense! Nothing of the sort!" she laughed. "Be off, Ted. I shall never get you home again if you don't start." "You'll have me home in a twinkling," he promised. And in a flash was gone. She turned and ran back, with head bent beneath the downpouring rain, light-hearted, to her home, not knowing, never guessing that on that handsome, smiling, healthy face of her young husband she had looked her last. For when, a couple of hours later, borne on men's shoulders, he was carried to his home, he was so crushed and mangled out of his likeness as his wife had known him that, even by force, they prevented her from looking upon him. When time had elapsed--Elinor, for some part of it mercifully numbed or unconscious, could not have told if hours, days or weeks--Bob Anstey, at her request, was brought to her. He had been in waiting, knowing that, sooner or later, that meeting, if they did not die with the pain of it, must be lived through. He had expected to see her lying helpless and strengthless with hidden face. She was standing up against the darkened windows at the end of the long room furthest from the door. He started, walking slowly, almost as if he was groping his way, among the familiar chairs and tables, in her direction. But when half the space was traversed, and she still stood there, uttering no word, dully watching him, his courage failed, and he stopped short. It was the sight of Ted's chair, his pipes on the bracket beside it, the picture of him, smiling, in the silver frame on the mantelpiece, which unmanned him. He had prayed that he might have strength to support the girl-widow in this interview; and he found himself suddenly giving way before her, sobbing like a child; while Elinor looked on tearlessly from afar, dangling the tassel of the window-blind in her hand. When at length he somewhat mastered his grief and looked up, she had come quite close to him, but she did not speak. "I thought you might like to hear," Anstey said, in sorrow-muffled voice; and she nodded her head for him to go on. "He--talked of you nearly all the way," he began. "He said how----" She stopped him. "Not that," she said, "not yet. The other--the other!"