She glanced at him with slight alarm, and then at Alymer. Denton saw the look and seemed surprised. Hal’s eyes asked Alymer what they were to do. He spoke with an effort. “I expect Miss Vivian would be glad to see so old and great a friend as Lord Denton.” “Of course she would,” he said decidedly—and to Hal: “What time do we leave Charing Cross?” Hal spoke very little on the journey. A nameless dread weighed on her spirit, and a haunting fear for Lorraine. She was oppressed by a sense of deep sadness for the brilliant, succesful woman she had loved since her school days, who was now, after all her triumphs, alone in that little foreign village, caught in a maze of tangles and perplexities which offered no peaceful solution. She could not understand Alymer’s part at all, but she was convinced Lorraine’s absorbing devotion to him was not reciprocated in like manner. If Lorraine learnt this as soon as she recovered, what did the future hold for her again but more vain dreams, and bitter hopes that could never see fulfilment? She felt a little pitifully that life was very hard and difficult, even when one had a fine courage and will to face it; and a leaden pall of sorrow seemed to fold itself round her. What of Dudley and his hopeless love? Ethel and her inconsolable grief? Sir Edwin, and his secret bitterness? the gaunt music-teacher and her barren, joyless life? Across her mind passed some lines, that had a strong attraction for her: “So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, And just the art of being kind Is all the sad world needs.” Ah! in truth it was a sad world first of all; a sad, sad world in need of kindness and comfort. One could but go on trying to be kind, trying to be strong. It was the only thing in a life of pitfalls and easily made mistakes, to just march straight forward—eyes front—and not let anything daunt permanently. She felt, more profoundly than ever, it was not wise to turn aside, looking to right and left, questioning overmuch of right and wrong, probing into the actions of others. Each human being was as a soldier in a vast army, and all were there under the same colours, led by the same general, to bear, with what courage they could, the fortunes of war. Two might be standing together, and one be wounded and the other untouched; many disabled, and many unhurt; some left on the field to die, others found and nursed back to life. But the soldier was not there to question. If a comrade fell, it was no concern of his how he fell—his concern was to try and help him to safety, then go back and fight again, undismayed if his place was but a little insignificant one in the smoke and dust, unseen by any but a near neighbour perhaps as insignificant as himself. That was the true spirit of the great soldier, whether he was in the ranks, lost in the smoke, or whether, on a magnificent charger, he led gloriously for all the world to see.