“Deary-me! She's very young; but all the young gells are doin' something these days. I've got a niece in munitions-makin' a pretty penny she is. I've been meanin' to tell you—I don't come to church now; since my son was killed, I don't seem to 'ave the 'eart to go anywhere—'aven't been to a picture-palace these three months. Any excitement starts me cryin'.” “I know; but you'd find rest in church.” Mrs. Soles shook her head, and the small twisted bob of her discoloured hair wobbled vaguely. “I can't take any recreation,” she said. “I'd rather sit 'ere, or be at work. My son was a real son to me. This tea's the only thing that does me any good. I can make you a fresh cup in a minute.” “Thank you, Mrs. Soles, but I must be getting on. We must all look forward to meeting our beloved again, in God's mercy. And one of these days soon I shall be seeing you in church, shan't I.” Mrs. Soles shifted her weight from one slippered foot to the other. “Well! let's 'ope so,” she said. “But I dunno when I shall 'ave the spirit. Good day, sir, and thank you kindly for calling, I'm sure.” Pierson walked away with a very faint smile. Poor queer old soul!—she was no older than himself, but he thought of her as ancient—cut off from her son, like so many—so many; and how good and patient! The melody of an anthem began running in his head. His fingers moved on the air beside him, and he stood still, waiting for an omnibus to take him to St. John's Wood. A thousand people went by while he was waiting, but he did not notice them, thinking of that anthem, of his daughters, and the mercy of God; and on the top of his 'bus, when it came along, he looked lonely and apart, though the man beside him was so fat that there was hardly any seat left to sit on. Getting down at Lord's Cricket-ground, he asked his way of a lady in a nurse's dress. “If you'll come with me,” she said, “I'm just going there.” “Oh! Do you happen to know a Mrs. Lynch who nurses” “I am Mrs. Lynch. Why, you're Edward Pierson!” He looked into her face, which he had not yet observed. “Leila!” he said. “Yes, Leila! How awfully nice of you to come, Edward!” They continued to stand, searching each for the other's youth, till she murmured: “In spite of your beard, I should have known you anywhere!” But she thought: 'Poor Edward! He is old, and monk-like!' And Pierson, in answer, murmured: “You're very little changed, Leila! We haven't, seen each other since my youngest girl was born. She's just a little like you.” But he thought: 'My Nollie! So much more dewy; poor Leila!' They walked on, talking of his daughters, till they reached the hospital. “If you'll wait here a minute, I'll take you over my wards.”