“What am I to do?… what am I to do?” she moaned, rocking herself backwards and forwards. “There was only one thing in all the world that made my life worth living, and now it is gone.” She sobbed bitterly for a few minutes, softened by Hal’s sympathetic presence, then she told her brokenly: “They’re all mourning. Every single soul in this dreary building. Considering he never left the flat, it’s wonderful—wonderful; but he knew all the children, and they all knew him. And if you know the children you know the fathers and mothers. “Little Splodgkins, as we always called him, has been sitting like a small stone effigy on the stairs outside his door. He has patrolled the whole staircase for days, keeping the other children quiet. I told Mr. Hayward, and he sent him a message. He said, ‘Tell him to grow up a fine man, and fight for his country, and not to forget me before we meet again.’ The little chap fought back his tears when I gave him the message, and he said: ‘Tell him, I thaid dammit, tho I will.’ “But they’re young, and they’ve got each other, most of the other folks here, and I’ve got nothing—nothing. Miss Pritchard, I can’t go on again the same—I can’t—I can’t.” “You must help Miss Hayward, at any rate for a time,” Hal told her; “if you didn’t you would be failing him now; and even little Splodgkins doesn’t mean to do that.” “No, of course you’re right. I can light the fire for her in the afternoon and put the kettle on. It isn’t much to be alive for, but he’d say it was worth while. He’d say, ‘What would she do without a G in the alphabet?’ wouldn’t he? I must remember. And now you must go to her. It’s worse for her than me, only that she’s still got all her life before her, and she’s very attractive, while I never seemed to please any one in my life but him.” “Yes; I must go now,” Hal said; “but I’ll come and see you again. Come down east with me next Wednesdayn evening, to a social evening in the slums, will you? They’re so interesting. We’ll have tea together first. I’ll arrange to take you, and then you’ll meet Dick.” “Good-bye for the present.” Then she crossed the landing, wondering with a sinking heart how she could ever hope to comfort Ethel. CHAPTER XL It was not until a spell of exhaustingly hot weather set in in early July that Hal saw a still more noticeable frailty in Lorraine. She was quite unable to act, and spent a great deal of time on her sofa near the window, where she could just distinguish the river through the trees. It seemed to have a growing fascination for her. “I’ve always thought,” she told Hal one day, “how I’d like to go away from the fret and worry of London, smoothly down the river to a haven of sunshine and sea.” “Why don’t you go, Lorry. Why not go at once, before you get any weaker?”