Napoleon has assured us that repetition is the greatest figure of rhetoric. The stone is worn away by the ever-falling drop of water. Fancy's reiterated phrase fell persistently upon the ice in Susan Yellam's heart and melted some of it, not all. Upon the Thursday morning the Squire received a letter from the Colonel commanding Sergeant Yellam's battalion. He read it to Lady Pomfret. "My dear Sir: "With deep regret I have to inform you of the death of Sergeant Alfred Yellam upon the night of the fifteenth of December. All the facts have come to light, beyond dispute. One of our wounded men has been lying unconscious in our receiving hospital. Last night he became conscious. It seems that Yellam was close to him when a shell from a trench howitzer burst literally upon poor Yellam. According to the evidence of the wounded man Yellam disappeared. That was the last indelible impression of the only witness, who was struck by a splinter from the same shell, and lost consciousness immediately afterwards. "Sergeant Yellam had earned the affection and confidence of all ranks. He was the type of man we value most, cool in danger, modest at all times, cheerful, energetic and capable. Peace be with him! "Yours faithfully, "Courtenay Tring. "P. S.--The official communication will reach Sergeant Yellam's widow in due course. This letter will precede it, and I leave it to your discretion what to do." "What shall we do?" groaned the Squire. Before telling the news to anybody else, Sir Geoffrey walked to the Vicarage. Hamlin read the letter. "Susan Yellam must be told," he said slowly. "She can intercept the official communication. Such news would kill Fancy." "Who will tell Susan?" "I will take the letter to her." The Squire looked at his face. He wondered why Hamlin was so affected. The Parson had sat down, as if he had received a personal blow. He rested his austere face upon his hand, thinking not of the young wife, so full of faith and courage, but of the old woman. Sir Geoffrey said impulsively: "I wish that you could be spared this, Hamlin." "So do I." "You might let Jane Mucklow do it, or Uncle." "Susan Yellam is my parishioner. God's hand lies heavy on her--how heavy I am unable to determine. I have never felt, Pomfret, so conscious of my disabilities, of anæmic faith in such cases as this." The Squire stood confounded. "I wish I had your faith, Hamlin." "What is faith?" asked Hamlin, almost fiercely. "Is it merely a belief that satisfies and helps oneself? The faith that burned in the Apostles was more than that. It saved others. Virtue, at a touch, went out of the faithful into the faithless. If I could touch this poor old woman----!" "You will," said the Squire, with assurance. "No. And that is why I wish that I could be spared another--failure."