ROBIN was coming down to Grote to spend with his mother his last day in England, for to-morrow he and Jim were both going out for their first period of active service in France. She had been at her post since the end of October, and had been too busy all day to think of much except the work which so incessantly occupied her, and too tired when that was over to think, with the more conscious part of her brain, of anything at all. She had brought her whole attention and will to performing her duties adequately, and her greatest reward had been that she had been able to forget herself. Next to that ranked the commendation of her most efficient matron. But at present her work had not become for her a labour of love. Her pride was involved in its being well done; apart from that it was still more of an anodyne than a duty or a joy.

She had got up very early on this day after Christmas Day, for Robin would arrive by car in the middle of the morning, and she wanted to get through as much as possible of the day’s work before his advent, so that she should be freer for him. She had already arranged for the catering of the day: she had seen to the giving out of clean linen: she had unpacked a consignment of cigarettes and distributed their allowance to her patients. Just now she was going round the wards to see that the breakfasts were what they should be, and was talking to a man for whom to-day there was no breakfast, as he had to have an operation during the morning. He was a quiet, well-mannered young fellow, no older than Robin, smooth-faced and curly-haired, and he had to lose a leg. But it was the operation itself that he dreaded most.

He looked at her as she said good-morning to him with brown, frightened eyes.

“Can’t they put it off a day or two yet, sister?” he asked. “It seems easier this morning.”

She sat down on the edge of his bed.

“I’m afraid not, Jaye,” she said. “You must make up your mind to it. And they do such wonders now: you’ll be able to walk about as well as any of us, when they’ve given you your new leg.”

’Tisn’t that, sister,” said he. “It’s the operation itself. I’m frightened of that.”

“But there’s nothing to fear, my boy,” said she. “You’ll go to sleep, nothing more than that, and when you wake you’ll be tucked up again, and as comfortable as possible.”

Somehow those frightened eyes, the white young face, the thin hands smote her with a new and acute compassion, a thing that touched her emotions, not her reasonable self. Often and often she had felt so sorry for these men who had faced peril so gallantly, and pain so bravely, but their peril and pain had never yet penetrated her like this. The boy had been so good, too, uncomplainingly bearing so much. She had a special feeling for him, for the grim matron had relaxed into a joke the other day, as they stood together by his bed, and declared that Jaye was in love with her, an opinion with which the man in the next bed, when appealed to, cordially agreed.

“So you mustn’t be afraid, Jaye,” she said. “You have borne pain so well all these days, and very soon now you will be free from it, and be getting quite strong again.”

He struggled with his reticent shyness a moment.

“I shouldn’t mind if you’d come with me, sister,” he said, “and be there while they’re doing it.”

Helen had never been present at any operation: it was not part of her duties, and the idea of it horrified her. Then she remembered that it would be perfectly possible for her to go with him to the operating-room, and remain there until he was under the anÆsthetic. Then she would leave him, and return when he was back in bed again, before he had come round. She would not like going into the operating-room, and seeing the anÆsthetic administered; even that would be horrible, but she did not hesitate in her answer.

“Why, of course I will,” she said, “if it would give you any comfort, Jaye. I will go and tell the surgeon I am coming with you.”

The boy’s face brightened.

“Thank you very much, sister,” he said. “I shan’t mind now.”

On her way down to the operating-room, she met the bearers coming up for Jaye, and told them to wait a moment, while she spoke to Mr. Brinton. She arranged this with him in a moment, and went back to the ward.

“Now they’re ready for us, Jaye,” she said, and he was lifted on to the stretcher.

“Got your girl with you, old chap,” said the man in the next bed. “Good luck.”

“Back again soon,” said Jaye cheerfully.

The operating-room was her husband’s sitting-room. The floor had been tiled, and was curved where it joined the walls, so that no angle could harbour dust. The walls had been stripped and covered with a glazed paper; in the corner was a white enamel basin with taps above it, and in the centre of the room a bed of plate-glass. By the window was a table on wheels, covered with a cloth. In front of it was Mr. Brinton, examining something beneath it. As they entered he replaced the cloth. At the head of the bed was the anÆsthetist, and by him a cylinder with a pipe attached to it, communicating with a small frame lined with india-rubber. By it stood a bottle and a wire mask. A couple of nurses were in the window, talking to the doctor.

The latter came forward.

“Upon my word, here’s a spoilt fellow,” he said, “getting Lady Grote to sit by him. Now, my boy, this is much the worst moment of all, when you’ve got to lie down on that bed. After that there’s nothing to mind at all. Let’s have a feel at your pulse.”

He stood there a moment, and said in a low voice to the anÆsthetist:

“A bit nervous. Send him off with gas and give ether afterwards. Now, you’ve passed the worst of it, Jaye.”

The anÆsthetist took up the india-rubber mouthpiece, attached to which was a tube with a tap, that hissed as he turned it on for a moment.

“There!” he said, “let me hold that for you, over your nose and mouth.... Yes, just like that.... That’s capital. Now breathe it in”—he turned on the tap again—“breathe it in greedily in long breaths. And when you’ve taken twenty long breaths—mind you count them—just say ‘twenty,’ and we won’t bother you any more.”

The two nurses were still talking to each other in the window. One of them laughed at something the other was saying, and then took a step towards the table covered with a cloth, and stood with it in her hands. Mr. Brinton, meantime, was putting on a sort of white smock-frock over his waistcoat, for he had taken off his coat. Helen remembered having seen that sort of smock coming from the sterilizing room. But the other nurse still smiled to herself and rubbed the tips of her fingers together, like a girl enjoying something amusing. She was rather a tiresome girl, Helen thought; she had mentioned the other day that she thought it was unladylike for women to smoke, and she had distinctly “bridled” when the joke of Jaye being in love with Lady Grote had been hinted at.

The gas made a slight hissing. Jaye was breathing greedily, as he had been told to do, and the surgeon had not yet buttoned the snow-white cuffs round his wrist, when the doctor took a step forward, and pulled up one of Jaye’s eyelids.

“That’s all right,” he said.

The anÆsthetist dropped the india-rubber mouthpiece and took up the wire mask. He sprinkled on it some of the contents of the bottle that stood by it on the floor, and laid it over Jaye’s face.

Mr. Brinton nodded to Lady Grote.

“Thank you very much, Lady Grote,” he said. “I thought we should have some difficulty with him. But he’s gone off now. I’ll send word to you when we shall want you again.”

Quite suddenly, Helen knew that it was not in the power of a decent woman to go away. She had promised Jaye to stop with him, while the operation was going on. She had meant to go away as soon as he was under the anÆsthetic, but now she could not. She loathed the thought of what was coming, but she could not cheat that still, unconscious form that lay on the glass bed. She had made a promise.

“I shall stop, please,” she said.

“I would recommend you not to,” said Mr. Brinton. “We shall all be busy: if you faint nobody will be able to attend to you.”

“I shan’t do anything of the sort,” she heard her voice saying.

Instantly the suave, polite Mr. Brinton became a perfectly different person, sharp and peremptory.

“Do as you like,” he said. “Now, then, move the bed up to the window, there’s better light. Are you ready with the sponges, nurse?”

Instantly the whole room sparkled with swift, deft energy, energy quiet and contained and fearfully alert. The doctor stripped off Jaye’s pyjama trousers, and Mr. Brinton looked at him a moment. Then, with forefinger and thumb, he felt his way down the thigh of his right leg till he came to the knee. That was swollen into a monstrous hump, and on the side of it was the gangrenous wound. He felt his way very carefully up again to about the middle of the thigh.

The nurse had already removed the cloth from the covered table, and Mr. Brinton looked at it. He took up a knife with a bulged edge to it, looked once more at the patient, and cut.

“Sponge,” he said sharply, “and be ready with forceps. Fine pair of legs the boy has got.”

“Half-back for Fulham,” said the anÆsthetist. “He did good work in the League matches last year. They would never have got into the final otherwise. I was playing on the other side. We should have won except for him.”

“Hopping-race for the future, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Brinton. “Pull his jacket up.”

Helen had seen the first incision, and the whole thing seemed to her the most heartless exhibition she had ever witnessed. They were talking about football ... when here was this poor boy—— And then a sudden illumination came to her. They were not heartless at all; they were simply employed in their work, doing the best they could, making life instead of death. It was natural they should talk about a League match: it was one of those humanities that enabled you to face the grim work of healing.

A button had torn loose as the nurse took the edge of Jaye’s pyjama jacket out of the way, and the whole of his body was exposed, strong and supple and charged with the potentiality of its manhood. Soon he would be a truncated thing, an object of pity. And why? Just because he had faced the peril and the pain. He had been willing, even as Robin had been willing, to fight for the inviolable law. He had done it for her.... Suddenly Jaye began to talk. For a moment Helen almost shrieked at the idea that he had come out of the anÆsthetic, and was conscious again with that great gash in his leg, and a half-dozen of forceps clinging like leeches to the severed veins and arteries. Then she remembered having heard that people under an anÆsthetic talked, and listened to a mumble of obscene things. Surely the nurse who had thought it unladylike to smoke, would be paralysed by this....

And then she saw her mistake. Nurse Killick had a bunch of small sponges in her hand, and paid no more attention to what Jaye was saying than she would have given to the whistling of the wind. She was just an operation nurse now: all that she existed for was to have a sponge ready when Mr. Brinton called for it. Close beside her were wads of sterilized cotton-wool, and nothing else except her particular department had the smallest meaning for her. The patient might say what he pleased: it fell on deaf ears. All that Miss Killick had to attend to, and all that would subsequently concern her, was the physical welfare of Jaye, not this farrago of things which his decent responsible self held in check. Then as suddenly as if a tap had been turned off he was silent again.

There was a pause in the surgical work as the patient was turned over on to his right side, and then it began again. The surgeon was standing between Helen and the work on which he was engaged, and she saw nothing now of what was going on. But presently the sound of sawing began, and with a spasm of contempt for herself, she felt her hands growing cold and damp, and a sick, empty feeling rising into her throat. At that she laid hold of her courage and clung to it with clenched fingers, determined not to brand herself in the eyes of those busy, skilful folk as a woman without stability or control. Slowly she regained possession of herself, for presently she must be herself again, when Jaye came round, and before that sawing noise ceased she was mistress of her nerves.

“Take it away,” said the surgeon suddenly, and one of the nurses wrapped up something in a sheet. The ligatures were tied and forceps removed and counted, and the flap of skin bound over the stump. Finally the surgeon turned round, went to the basin by the wall and washed his hands. As he dried them, he turned to her, the suave, polite Mr. Brinton again.

“You seem to have stood that very well for your first operation,” he said. “You’ll be able to stand by with sponges and ligatures next time.”

She went up to the room where they took Jaye, and put him to bed still unconscious. But before long he came round, and she had her reward.

“Hullo, sister,” he said faintly, “when are they going to begin?”

“But it’s all over, Jaye,” she said. “You’re back in bed, and you’ll have no more trouble.”

“And were you there all the time?” he asked.

“Of course. I told you I should be.”

“Thank you, sister,” said the boy.

Robin had arrived some minutes before, and presently she went down to him.

“Ah, my darling,” she said, “I’m late, but I couldn’t help it. Robin, we’re going to have such a nice day. I’ve got nothing more to do in the hospital till this evening. I got up at six o’clock in order to get through my work before you came.”

He kissed her.

“You are rather a trump,” he said. “Do you know, when you began I wondered whether you would stick to it. You smell of ether, mother.”

“Do I? Give me a cigarette, then. Robin, how very rude of you to wonder if I would stick to it.”

He laughed.

“You didn’t stick to the muffler-knitting very long,” he said.

“No, that’s true. I want to ask you something. Were you ashamed of me last autumn for not working at something?”

“Oh, it wasn’t my business,” said he.

“That’ll do: that’s enough. And how is your Jim?”

“My Jim? I think he’s yours. He told me to give you his love, if I thought you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t think you would.”

“My dear, how kind of him! Why didn’t you bring him down with you?”

“Because I wanted you all to myself, of course.”

She put her arm through his.

“Oh, Robin,” she said, “I should have been so disappointed if you had brought him. But I didn’t want to tell you not to. I thought perhaps you would, and I should have hated you for not wanting me all to yourself. And how is Miss Diphtheria Coombe? Is that her name?”

“Yes. She sent her love to you, too, and asked when you would talk over settlements with Mommer.”

“What a liar you are, darling,” said she. “I don’t know where you get it from. Whom else have you been seeing?”

“I saw Lady Gurtner—oh, I think she’s Gardner now—yesterday: I dined with her. She asked me to dinner nine times, so at last I went. One does go in the end.”

“Dinner-party?” asked his mother.

“Yes: about twenty. Not a single one of them had I ever seen before except that horrid friend of yours, what’s his name?”

It could not be Kuhlmann, so she tried Boyton.

“Yes,” said Robin. “He gave me a bad taste in the mouth. He was making odious insinuations about the Gurtner-Gardners, implying German sympathies. If you go and dine with people you shouldn’t do that. Because if you believe what you say, you’ve got no business to be there.”

“I quite agree. I knew Mr. Boyton had been saying things of the sort, and since then I haven’t seen him. What did you do after dinner?”

“We danced. There was a band and a great supper, as if it had been a regular ball. But only about a dozen people came.”

“Aline is not a very clever woman,” remarked his mother. “I warned her not to give a ball.”

Robin hesitated a moment.

“Have you had any sort of row with her?” he asked.

“She was a good deal vexed with me when I saw her last, more than a couple of months ago,” she said.

She longed to ask if Aline had said anything unfriendly about her, but that was just the sort of thing she never did ask. Robin would tell her if he thought fit.

“I gathered as much,” he said. “I’m sorry I went, but what was I to do? As I say, she asked me heaps of times, and I thought she was a friend of yours.”

Again it would have been very simple to have said: “Did she appear not to be?” but Helen left that question unuttered.

“Poor Aline,” she said, “I’m sorry her ball did not go off well.”

“Yes: it upset her. It must be horrid to stand at the top of your stairs and wait for people who don’t come. Is that enough about them, do you think?”

“Yes: just this one thing more,” she said. “I’m glad you went. Aline would like it. Now, Robin, will you take me for a walk? I’m still breathing ether, and I want to get rid of it.”

“Yes, but why are you so full of ether?”

“I attended an operation this morning. One of these poor boys had to have his leg off, and he had taken rather a fancy to me, and wanted me to be with him.”

“How horrible for you. Didn’t you hate it?”

“Loathed it, but I couldn’t help myself, could I?”

“You might have gone away, as soon as he was under the anÆsthetic.”

“I meant to, but when it came to, I just couldn’t.”

Robin smiled at her with the beautiful mouth Miss Jackson admired so much.

“And he’d actually taken a fancy to you, had he?” he asked. “I expect they’re all in love with you. Lord! I should flirt with you if you weren’t my mother.”

“You darling. But I’m a little old for you, aren’t I? You’d better stick to Miss Diphtheria.”

“She’s so damned respectable. She wouldn’t let me kiss her. Now, you’re not respectable: you don’t mind.”

Helen thought she had disciplined herself into acquiescing in Robin’s going out to France, had got used to it. But at the sight and the touch of him on this his last morning in England, her fortitude wavered like a blown flame. For the moment she could not face it at all.

“Ah, Robin, Robin!” she said.

He guessed what was in her mind, for the two read each other like open books.

“There never was such a mother,” he said. “Now let’s go out.”

It was the mildest of mid-winter days: all the autumn had been warm, too, and chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies still lingered, though already the squills and aconites, first messengers of the spring, had opened their blue bells and their yellow stars. Overhead the pale azure of the winter sky was flecked with little wrinkled clouds, as if some quiet sea had retreated, leaving the marks of breaking ripples on the ribbed sand. There was a chirruping of sparrows in the house-eaves, and a chatter as of razor-stropping from varnished starlings in a hawthorn bush, where they were lunching on the red berries, which they threw about in the rudest manner. Below the terrace the beech-woods, with trunks powdered by the green lichen growth of the autumn, and branches round which hovered a faint purple haze, clothed the steep hill-side down to the river.

At the bottom of the avenue the water, running high with rains, had flooded part of the valley, and the lowest of the trees stood mirrored in it. A pheasant with burnished copper back got up from the rough grass, and rose above the beeches with downward beating wings, and a rabbit scuttled silently into the fringe of undergrowth. Across the river the red roofs of the villages gleamed among the bare elms, and no more peaceful winter day could have been imagined. Only above the house there drooped the Red Cross flag, and in the loggia were sitting half a dozen blue-clad men with slings or crutches, and a nurse moved about among them. And yet all England was becoming one camp, one arsenal to brew the beer of war.

“Pheasant!” said Robin. “They’ve got peace on earth this autumn, anyhow.”

“I know. I wish it was the other way about. Oh, Robin, would you like to shoot this afternoon? I told the keeper to come up to see.”

“Well, then, I shouldn’t. I’ve told you once why I came down here.”

“I thought I should like to hear it twice,” said she.

Robin threw back his head. “I Came To See You!” he shouted.

“That will do beautifully. I think you’ve deafened me. You can stop and dine here, can’t you, and drive back afterwards?”

“Rather!” said Robin hoarsely. “That was my plan. I’ve broken a vocal chord. May I have an operation, and will you sit by me?”

“Operation for acute idiocy,” said she.

“Yes, inherited. Mother’s side.”

She looked at him a moment in silence, summing him up, reckoning what he was to her.

“Robin, one of the next things I want to be is a grandmother,” she said at length. “Do manage it for me before very long. Nobody else in the world can do it except you.”

“All right,” said he. “I’ll go and propose to Diphtheria, if you like. But if we’re to be married to-day, I must go back to town before dinner.”

“Then it must be put off. Oh, there’s the men’s dinner-bell. I shall have to go in for ten minutes and see that everything is right.”

“Mind you’re not longer,” said he.

The winter twilight closed in early, and after tea she had to leave him again to see to her duties, but they dined together, and she had nothing more to do in the hospital, which she could not delegate for once, until he would have to leave. Not until his car was round did either of them speak of what was coming, but talked exactly as they would have talked if weeks of quiet, unsundered life were in front of them. Then, at this last moment, she slipped from her chair and knelt by his side, as he sat in front of the fire in her white sitting-room upstairs where they had dined.

“Robin, there is only one word from me to you, and even that is unnecessary, for you know it already. My whole heart is yours, my darling, and it goes with you ever so bravely, and is always by your side, praying God to protect and bless you, and let you come back to me. I went to church in the big ward yesterday, on Christmas morning, and there was a jolly verse in the Psalms that made me think of you: ‘Good luck have thou with thine honour,’ it said.... My dear, the treasure of my heart!”

He leaned forward to her and kissed her.

“It has been the best day of all the days,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve ever loved each other so much. Absolutely top-hole. And now I’m going. Don’t come down with me, mother. I want to say good-bye to you here in your white room. It’s you. I shall see the last of you together. And as I leave the room, I shan’t look back.”

His lip quivered for a moment.

“And we’re brave and gay, both of us,” he added. “Good-bye.”

There were no spoken words between them after that, just a whisper passed between them, and in a couple of minutes he had left her. Presently there came the sound of his motor-wheels crunching the gravel.

From that hour there began in Helen Grote a change, vital and immense, in the spirit in which she devoted herself to the hospital. Her pride had hitherto demanded of her that she should do her work as perfectly and conscientiously as she was able, and there was no actual difference now in the quality of her performance of it. But now love began to inspire it, in that the men she looked after had been injured in the cause for which Robin was now in France. They and he were fellow-workers, she was looking after members of his brotherhood; more than that, she even at times seemed to herself to be directly serving him, for all those who fought were part of a corporate body, individuals who could not be dissevered from each other. Faintly at first, but with increasing splendour, even as dawn floods the sky and heralds the day, dimming the stars and turning the moon to ashes, so the New Spirit permeated her, extinguishing the lesser lights of self-respect which demanded of her an efficient performance, and filling the inter-stellar darkness with the glory of the sun not yet risen upon the earth.

She walked as in clear shadow, with the brightness still high and far above her, for often her heart was faint, and her soul was utterly lonely and quivered with apprehensions that she would not of her best will give a home to; but visible above her, brightening as it descended the stair of heaven, dawn stepped down towards the earth with luminous feet. And if sometimes her pulses were feeble with fear, there were other moments when they beat strong with the impulse of some new perception....

Often the light of this new dawn was hidden, so thickly clouded over that the emptiness and rebellion of those autumn months seemed to have returned, with this added, that Robin was now out in the peril of the storm, and any day or hour might bring some news which would drive dawn altogether from the sky. But she no longer sought relief from that thought in running away from it, but in plunging herself into all that could most intimately bring home to her the horror of war. Her soul’s escape lay not in trying to hide her eyes and screen herself from it, but by going with open vision into the very thick of it. Constantly her work bored, discouraged and disgusted her: she would feel for whole days together that the stupidest woman in the world could do all she was doing with no less efficiency than she, and that a finer sympathy than hers would have gilded routine with splendour.

Here was the discouragement: that she was doing the best she could, but that anybody else would have easily done better; but that served, thanks to the spirit which was now beginning to inspire her devotion, not as a hindrance to her labours, but as a spur to their complete performance, and her humility exalted her. So too with the boredom and disgust that at times assailed her over menial and repeated tasks: she did not slur over them or delegate them to others, but only struggled with her own littleness in thinking anything little. Her life, which once she had consecrated, as with vows, to her own amusement, vows that, when the war broke out, she sacrificed everything to keep, had slid from under her own hands, and shook itself free of the benumbing touch of her own self-centred aims.

To-day she made no fresh vows, she did not even trouble to repudiate the former ones, or register a new intention. She simply went straight forward with industry and simplicity. She had never been the least inclined to introspection, and did not waste time or energy in dwelling with regret on the years she had so devoted to her own satisfaction; indeed, if she had stopped to examine herself, she would have found no shred of regret hidden away in the cupboards of her mind. The past was over and done with, and, after all, she had enjoyed her years enormously. It was foreign to her nature to regret what had yielded her so much pleasure.

But the past was over and done with in this sense also, that she felt there was no going back to it. Already, even though but a few months had passed since August, for her the cleavage seemed complete, and if she looked forward to the day when the war was over, and leisure and security returned, she could not think herself back into the spirit of the days when Grote was a temple consecrated to the splendour and extravagance and desires of herself and her world. Perhaps it would be so; but she did not busy herself with such speculations, for in the conditions and with the occupations in which she now lived, she came to regard the old life as something phantasmal. All that was truly real, so far as reality concerned her, was comprised in the wards and workrooms of the hospital, and in a certain unlocated trench in France.

Robin was there somewhere: that was never wholly out of her mind. Whatever her occupation was, that fact stayed and regarded her. Sometimes it gave her strength and resolution, sometimes it made her hand falter and her knees fail, but in one aspect or another it was always there. She had moments in which she forgot everything else, when among her letters she would find the thin envelope, with its Army Post Office stamp and its rather faint pencilled inscriptions: she had moments of sick suspense when a telegram was brought her. On one such occasion she felt herself unable to open it, and, giving it to the matron, waited, feeling sure that it brought some intolerable message, until that not unsympathetic person asked her whether the consignment of cigarettes, to which it referred, had arrived. Miss Hawker had clearly guessed the cause of her being asked to open it, for she said, “It’s a mere waste of good anxiety to anticipate trouble, Sister.”

But as constant as the consciousness that Robin was away in France, and much more real, was the consciousness that Robin was here and was hers, and could not be parted from her. He partook of an immortal quality, and though for herself she had always looked forward, without fear and without any further expectation, to the moment when the great fish would gulp her down, as she floated all water-logged on the surface of spent life, she could not apply the same image to him, or to her relations with him. The image of her thought was at first vague and veiled, but it began to assume a firmer outline, as of a conviction in process of crystallization.

In front of this background, the life full of boredoms, and discouragements and disgusts went on its busy way. Independent of that which worked behind them, turning them to something that was in its essence gold, there were encouragements and surprises as well. Among these were the events of the evening of the New Year. The men had asked if they might give an entertainment to the staff, doctors and nurses, and housemaids and servants, and Helen had expressed her cordial assent. Thereafter for three days the lives of the staff, especially the female portion of it, had been rendered quite intolerable from sheer overwork.

All was wrapped in mystery, but for the sake of the entertainment those of the staff who could sew were bidden to make blouses, and shirts and scarves, and all the appurtenances of dress, which, it might have been thought, wounded men in hospital would certainly not have required. An eye had to be kept on seven-tail bandages; anything that could be converted into “attire” of any kind was requisitioned. Every member of the staff, of course, had been told in confidence what the piÈce de rÉsistance of this entertainment was to be, but the fact that everybody knew, having been confidentially informed, kept the secret safe and inviolable.

A stage had been constructed at the end of the long dining-room (this was Helen’s responsibility as regards the entertainment), and for the rest, everybody knew (though nobody knew) precisely what was going to happen. But during those three days Helen was in strong request, and she had to see that there was a curtain broad enough to cover the stage—two would do, to be parted in the middle, but this would be less satisfactory—a piano somewhere in front of the stage, and a practically unlimited amount of furniture. If there was a printing-press in the house, so much the better (there wasn’t): if not, her typewriter could, with industry, produce enough programmes to go round. She, above all, must be under an inviolable seal of secrecy.

The evening arrived, and in the front rows, immediately before the curtain, were those whom the doctor in charge permitted to be carried down recumbent from the wards. Behind them were seats for the staff, and the rest of the audience consisted of the minority who were not otherwise engaged, either directly, as entertainers, or, hardly less usefully, as scene shifters or dressers. The first part of the programme consisted of songs and recitations, all charged with the highest degree of sentiment, except a comedian, who made the most unblushing references to matrimony, mothers-in-law and high cheese. It concluded with a horn-pipe danced by two men with one leg apiece. They had arms interlaced round each other’s necks, and roared with laughter themselves.

The second part of the programme unveiled the complete mystery about the need for female attire, for it consisted of a revue. There was no plot of any kind, as Helen had already learned was the proper thing in revues, but there were numberless topical allusions to every member of the staff except herself, and these in the main constituted the dramatic action. But the weight of the occasion fell on the sumptuous ballet, that was a perpetual decoration both to eye and ear. When a parody of the hospital surgeon appeared, armed with a wood-saw and a meat-chopper, they sang, “Here comes the knifey-man;” when the anÆsthetist glided on with the ghost-walk, and a football-bladder under his arm, this galaxy of bass-voiced maidens sang, “Hush-a-bye, baby.” In the intervals they danced, and never was there seen so light-hearted a chorus. Some had slings, some were bandaged, some were on crutches, but all were amazingly attired in the height of feminine fashion.

But still, not even after the ballet-girls had been recalled till they were surfeited with success, was there any allusion to Lady Grote. She would rather have liked them to laugh at her, too; the dignity of not being laughed at did not quite compensate in her mind for the fun of being derided. It was very nice of these boys not to laugh at her, but she felt that somehow she had not found the way to their hearts, in not having presented some ridiculous feature to them. But the whole feeling lasted no longer than lasts a breath in the frosty air, for as soon as the chorus ceased to be recalled, it was her nervous duty to say what is called “a few words.”

The curtain had at last been drawn again without the renewal of applause that demanded a fresh appearance of the chorus, and she was waiting for the turning-up of lights that should precede the “few words,” when it was drawn back again, and the stage-manager appeared. The chorus was trooping in at the back of the room, and he waited till they had all entered.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve made fun of you all, and if you’ve enjoyed it as much as we have, why—you’ve enjoyed it as much as us. But there’s one of you as we haven’t said a word about yet, for you can’t laugh at such as her. We’ve laughed at the surgeon, and the doctors and the nurses, and everyone, because they’ve been jolly good to us, and at the same time have worried us with their knives and their dressings, and their beastly medicines, and we thought it fair to get our own back over that, and now to thank them very kindly for their care. But there’s just one other as we can’t make fun of, because of her blessed love and goodness, and if anybody here doesn’t know whom I’m talking about, why, he don’t deserve to be here at all. I won’t even name her name, but she’ll be so good as to keep her seat, while everyone else in this room will just stand up and give her three of the biggest cheers as ever was, and wish her of the best.”

The whole speech was an utter surprise to her, and as she listened, her own “few words” completely deserted her. When nobody laughed at her, though they ridiculed everyone else, she had but determined to do better; now it appeared that she had done, in their opinion, so very much better than she had any idea of. And when, at the end of the cheering, she rose, she felt no touch whatever of the sentimentality which is supposed to choke a speaker’s voice when he returns thanks for handsome remarks. She felt merely grateful, grateful and surprised not in the region of the cheap emotions, but in her heart. They were pleased with her, and she loved her reward. She had no more inclination to choke and falter than has the man who has lain awake through a night of pain the desire to sob at the rising of the sun.

The supper was a swift affair, for the matron had ordained that everybody must go straight to bed the moment that midnight struck, and the laughter and the tramp of feet on the oak staircase were silent again a quarter of an hour afterwards. Helen had often passed through the hall, where now she stood after bidding the men good-night, when the house was still, feeling unutterably lonely. To-night she did not feel that.

She passed through the dining-room where the entertainment had taken place on her way to her room. There were letters for her, but none from Robin, and the rest would wait until the morning. At this moment he and the men who had tramped and laughed their way to bed were the only people who had any significance for her. She warmed her heart at that dear firelight.