Over the edge of the purple down, Where the single lamplight gleams, Know ye the road to the Merciful Town That is hard by the Sea of Dreams— Where the poor may lay their wrongs away, And the sick may forget to weep? But we—pity us!Oh, pity us! We wakeful; ah, pity us!— We must go back with Policeman Day— Back from the City of Sleep! Weary they turn from the scroll and crown, Fetter and prayer and plough They that go up to the Merciful Town, For her gates are closing now. It is their right in the Baths of Night Body and soul to steep But we—pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; oh, pity us!— We must go back with Policeman Day— Back from the City of Sleep! Over the edge of the purple down, Ere the tender dreams begin, Look—we may look—at the Merciful Town, But we may not enter in! Outcasts all, from her guarded wall Back to our watch we creep: We—pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; oh, pity us!— We that go back with Policeman Day— Back from the City of Sleep At the last echo he was aware that his mouth was dry and unknown pulses were beating in the roof of it. The housekeeper, who would have it that he must have fallen in and caught a chill, was waiting to catch him on the stairs, and, since he neither saw nor answered her, carried a wild tale abroad that brought his mother knocking at the door. “Anything happened, dear? Harper said she thought you weren’t—” “No; it’s nothing. I’m all right, mummy. _Please_ don’t bother.” He did not recognise his own voice, but that was a small matter beside what he was considering. Obviously, most obviously, the whole coincidence was crazy lunacy. He proved it to the satisfaction of Major George Cottar, who was going up to town to-morrow to hear a lecture on the supply of ammunition in the field; and having so proved it, the soul and brain and heart and body of Georgie cried joyously: “That’s the Lily Lock girl—the Lost Continent girl—the Thirty-Mile-Ride girl—the Brushwood girl! _I_ know her!” He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to reconsider the situation by sunlight, when it did not appear normal. But a man must eat, and he went to breakfast, his heart between his teeth, holding himself severely in hand. “Late, as usual,” said the mother. “My boy, Miriam.” A tall girl in black raised her eyes to his, and Georgie’s life training deserted him—just as soon as he realised that she did not know. He stared coolly and critically. There was the abundant black hair, growing in a widow’s peak, turned back from the forehead, with that peculiar ripple over the right ear; there were the grey eyes set a little close together; the short upper lip, resolute chin, and the known poise of the head. There was also the small well-cut mouth that had kissed him. “Georgie—_dear!_” said the mother, amazedly, for Miriam was flushing under the stare.