The waters swung by, singing to themselves. They poured peace upon his troubled spirit. Their strong life entered into his, a resistless tide. Feebly he tried to stay it. He wanted to go back to his distress, to dwell upon it, to worry it, as a young dog frets to go back to the kill. Nature, the Comforter, would have none of it. She loved her ailing little one over well to let him have his way. She had him in her arms, and would not let him go. She sang in his ear; she rocked his spirit to sleep. The floodgates were open; and that tide of healing stole in upon his being. In his mind it made religious music. He could not resist it. Half reluctant he let himself drift on those sweet waters. The sea roamed blindly by. He watched her as a sick child watches his mother. Sense was alive; self was dead. His body was the eye of his soul, the avenue of spirit. It had no life of its own to cloud his clear vision. The tide of healing swept forward, smoothing the rough surfaces, washing away the jagged edges of pain. As it flowed on, that squabble on the beach a few minutes back receded, ultimately to be lost to view. It had been drowned by the incoming waters. He was walking backwards on himself towards the centre that some call Christ; withdrawing from the Circumference, where the winds of the World moan always. And in that Centre, always for all men the same, there was Peace and Love and Life Eternal, as on that Circumference there had been War and Darkness and Discord. Lying on the bosom of the mother-deep, watching her breathe, the boy smiled. II The Parson at his side was stroking his calves. The boy watched him with dreamy eyes. "Are you hurt, sir?" he asked in a far-away voice. It came from the depths of no-where. It seemed no longer his. He listened to it with awe. "Nothing that matters," replied the Parson. "Thank God for His great mercies, and my dear lady here." Lifting his sword, he kissed the hilt. "She was inspired," he said in reverent whisper. "I never saw the like and never shall again." He wiped the blade upon his knee-breeches. "Their beastly hairs stick yet--see!" The boy heard no word. He sat quite still, his eyes on that twinkling waste beneath the boom. The sun, which had been shining through mist, now blazed hot upon his face. He eased the boat away, and the shadow of the great brown lug fell upon him comfortably. "It's all very wonderful," he said, his eyes on the musing waters. "It's a miracle--nothing less," replied the Parson, unslinging the despatch-bag. "This bag did me yeoman service. Look!" It was slashed to ribands, the rolled coat within gashed through and through; and as he shook it a bullet fell out of the folds. "I owe my life to it and Piper's shooting. The old man dropped a chap dead at two hundred yards as he was braining me." The boy woke at last. "What of him--old Piper?" "Ah, what?" said the Parson, grey and grave beneath the sweat. Neither spoke again. III