Bethune stood, looking as if he had been convicted of the most abject folly. And English lightly flicked the scrap into the blaze: "The life that counts is the life that no other soul can know," said he. But he had no sooner said the words than he corrected himself, and his voice took that altered note which marked any reference to his wife. "At least," he said, "no other soul but one." Those friends, who were so much to each other, in speech communicated less than the most ordinary acquaintances. Bethune stood, in his wooden way, looking down at the armchair. Just now he had something to say, and it was difficult to him. At last, pointing to the hearth, as if he still beheld the fruit of his labour of friendship being consumed in it, he spoke, awkwardly: "It did its work, though." English flashed an upward look, half humorous, half searching. "What did its work?" "The—my—oh, the damned Life!" The other man pondered over the words a little while. Then, with a smile that had something almost tender in it, he looked up at his friend again: "I am afraid you will have to explain a little more, Ray." Bethune shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The colour mounted to his face. He stared down at English, wistfully. "It’s a bit hard to explain," he said, "yet I’d like you to know—that diary, those letters of yours, I had to have them, extracts of them, for the work, you see.... Well——" Here came a pause of such length that English was fain to repeat: "Well?" Then Bethune blurted it out: "She had never read them——" "Ah!" "She never wanted to read them. Oh!"—quickly, "it’s not that she didn’t care." "You need not explain that." English’s head was bent. His voice was very quiet, but Bethune’s whole being thrilled to the tumult he inarticularly felt in the other’s soul. He half put out his hand to touch him, then drew it back. "Go on with your story—with your own part of the story," said Harry. "She did not want to read them," said Bethune. "I made her." The husband offered no comment; and, drawing a long breath like a child, his friend went on: "And when she read at last—oh! even I could see it—it was as if her heart broke." Still the bent head, the hands clasped over the knees, the silence. Bethune could bear it no longer, and took courage to lay that touch of timid eager sympathy upon English’s shoulder. "Harry, I’m such a fool, I can’t explain things." "Oh, I understand," answered English then, in a deep vibrating voice. He rose suddenly and squared himself, drawing in the air in a long sigh. "Do you think I could misunderstand—her?" Their looks met. There was a wonderful mixture of sweetness and sorrow on the face of him whom life and death had equally betrayed. Suddenly they clasped hands, for the first time since their parting in the Baroghil passes. Then they stood awhile without speaking. Harry English once more fixing visions in the fire, and Bethune looking at his comrade.