Death sighed. “It’s the same with my old Departmental Heads. Nothing on earth will make my fossils on the Normal Civil Side realise that we are dying in a new age. Come and look at them. They might interest you.” “Thanks, I will, but----Excuse me a minute! Here’s my zealous young assistant on the wing once more.” The Seraph had returned to report the arrival of overwhelmingly heavy convoys at The Gate, and to ask what the Saint advised. “I’m just off on an inter-departmental inspection which will take me some time,” said St. Peter. “You _must_ learn to act on your own initiative. So I shall leave you to yourself for the next hour or two, merely suggesting (I don’t wish in any way to sway your judgment) that you invite St. Paul, St. Ignatius (Loyola, I mean) and--er--St. Christopher to assist as Supervising Assessors on the Board of Admission. Ignatius is one of the subtlest intellects we have, and an officer and a gentleman to boot. I assure you,” the Saint turned towards Death, “he revels in dialectics. If he’s allowed to prove his case, he’s quite capable of letting off the offender. St. Christopher, of course, will pass anything that looks wet and muddy.” “They are nearly all that now, sir,” said the Seraph. “So much the better; and--as I was going to say--St. Paul is an embarrass--a distinctly strong colleague. Still--we all have our weaknesses. Perhaps a well-timed reference to his seamanship in the Mediterranean--by the way, look up the name of his ship, will you? Alexandria register, I think--might be useful in some of those sudden maritime cases that crop up. I needn’t tell _you_ to be firm, of course. That’s your besetting--er--I mean--reprimand ’em severely and publicly, but--” the Saint’s voice broke--“oh, my child, _you_ don’t know what it is to need forgiveness. Be gentle with ’em--be very gentle with ’em!” Swiftly as a falling shaft of light the Seraph kissed the sandalled feet and was away. “Aha!” said St. Peter. “He can’t go far wrong with that Board of Admission as I’ve--er--arranged it.” They walked towards the great central office of Normal Civil Death, which, buried to the knees in a flood of temporary structures, resembled a closed cribbage-board among spilt dominoes. They entered an area of avenues and cross-avenues, flanked by long, low buildings, each packed with seraphs working wing to folded wing. “Our temporary buildings,” Death explained. “’Always being added to. This is the War-side. You’ll find nothing changed on the Normal Civil Side. They are more human than mankind.” “It doesn’t lie in _my_ mouth to blame them,” said St. Peter. “No, I’ve yet to meet the soul you wouldn’t find excuse for,” said Death tenderly; “but then _I_ don’t--er--arrange my Boards of Admission.” “If one doesn’t help one’s Staff, one’s Staff will never help itself,” St. Peter laughed, as the shadow of the main porch of the Normal Civil Death Offices darkened above them.