The human mind and heart are difficult to understand, and, in spite of all men's researches in the realm of psychology, can never be explained. I had left Mr. Lethbridge's house, angry with the owner of it, almost angry with Hugh, certainly hard and bitter towards Isabella Lethbridge; and yet, no sooner had I got outside than an entire revulsion of feeling and thought came over me. My mind seemed like a cloud of dust, while confused, whirling thoughts possessed me. But nothing was real and clear, save that I had played an unworthy part. I reflected that I had not understood Hugh, neither had I understood his father, and in everything I had bungled. I had left Mr. Lethbridge when, as it now seemed to me, he was in the humor to be reasoned with. Had I, I reflected, understood anything of the human heart, I should have known that he would have felt a sense of utter desolation at Hugh's departure, and might, if I had been wise, have repented of his harsh action; but I had not been wise. In a fit of anger I had refused his hospitality, I had insulted him, and thereby had closed the door of his house against me forever.

With this thought, too, came the realization that I had been anything but courteous to Isabella Lethbridge. She, naturally, had desired to know something about the interview which had taken place, and I had rudely refused to reply to her question. I had left the house in a way that was less than civil, and had, as a consequence, stamped myself as a clown.

Strange as it may seem, I had practically forgotten all about Hugh. I had come to his father's house in order to be near him during the most critical and difficult hour of his life, and I ought to have been with him during the period of anguish which must naturally follow. Instead of which I had left him as though I did not care how he fared.

But more than all this my mind and heart were in a state of turmoil, as I considered my feelings towards Isabella Lethbridge. I had caught the flash of her eyes as she looked into mine. In my pride and vanity I could not help believing that she had an interest in me which was more than ordinary, and I knew my heart had responded to what I believed existed in hers, even although, all the time, I felt angrily towards her.

I walked towards the Lodge gates, scarcely knowing what I was doing or realizing what had happened, except in a vague, confused way. At that time I forgot my own malady, forgot that my days were numbered. It seemed to me that life stretched out before me, full of wonder, and full of promise. Presently, however, my confused feelings subsided, and I began to think more sanely and connectedly on what had taken place. I remembered that Hugh's car was outside the house, and that, in all probability, he would be coming along in a few minutes. I determined, therefore, to wait for him. So instead of passing through the Lodge gates, I turned and walked back towards the house. I had not gone more than a hundred yards when I met Isabella Lethbridge. Why she had come I had no idea, because she could not have expected to meet me. She would, naturally, think I had continued my journey home, yet she showed no surprise at meeting me.

"Mr. Erskine," she said, "what have I done that you should—should——"

I thought I caught a sob in her voice. Certainly she seemed strangely wrought upon.

I was silent, for I did not know how to answer her. Longings, hopes, fears, and desires surged through my heart in a most unaccountable way. In one sense I felt strangely happy at being there with her on that bright moonlight night; for the clouds had now rolled away, and the moon sailed serenely in the sky above. On the other hand, I knew I was much depressed. While everything was possible, nothing seemed possible. Truly, life was a maddening maze!

She turned with me, as if to return to the house, and for some time we walked side by side without speaking.

"Won't you tell me what has taken place?" she asked.

"Your brother has joined the Army," I replied. "He has got married too—married to Mary Treleaven. He asked me to come with him to the house while he told his father."

"And——?" she asked.

"Need I tell you that?" was my response.

"You mean that my father has driven him out of the house," and her voice was hard and angry.

I do not know why it was, but at that moment I felt I must champion Josiah Lethbridge's cause. The man had angered me beyond words, and yet I found myself excusing him.

"Your father has had all his convictions trampled upon, all his hopes destroyed," I replied. "The things Hugh has done came upon him suddenly, and overcome by disappointment and grief, he—he——"

"Do you excuse him, Mr. Erskine?" she interrupted.

"I have neither the right to excuse nor condemn. I was simply an onlooker, and had no right to be there at all."

She caught my arm convulsively.

"Don't say that," she said eagerly. "You—you have the right; that is, you are interested in Hugh. He is so fond of you, and he thought, of course he thought, you might influence my father. Besides——"

"Besides what?" I queried, as I saw her hesitate.

"Oh, I don't know. Everything is in a muddle; everything is so hopeless; and yet father talks about God—talks about the power of religion—talks about providence!"

I was silent at this, for her words were but an echo of my own thoughts.

"Why should not Hugh marry the girl he loves?" she went on. "He is young, and has the right to live his own life; if they love each other, what right has my father to stand in their way?"

"I thought you did not believe in love. I remember, when talking with you about it one day, you expressed the opinion that such a thing did not exist." I said this almost triumphantly, as though pleased to get the better of her in an argument.

"At any rate," she replied, "he has the madness of love. He is willing to give all, sacrifice all, risk all, for it. That is something anyhow. Mr. Erskine, will you not come back to the house again and plead with my father? He might listen to you. Do you not think you owe it to Hugh, since you came up with him?" Then her mood altered. "After all, what is the use of it? Life can never be anything but a promise of something which can never be fulfilled. But I love him for what he has done. I am prouder of my brother than ever. It is worth living to know that one whom one loves as a brother, has dared everything, and sacrificed everything, for his love."

A strange feeling possessed me; at that moment I thought I loved Isabella Lethbridge; felt that here, at least, was a woman who, in spite of her contradictions, in spite of the fact that she had repelled me, was worth the love of a lifetime. As I reflected upon it afterwards, however, I knew that I did not love her. Between my life and hers was a great impassable barrier. Besides, what right had I, a man with one foot in the grave, a man whose days were numbered, to think of such things?

Again there was a silence between us, and during that silence such a longing filled my life as I had never known before. I longed to live, to live on and on indefinitely. I hated the barriers by which I was bounded. My whole being revolted against the thought of death. At that moment, too, I felt as though there must be something for which I could find no better name than God Who was behind all things, Who made all things, Who thought all things. Why should that Infinity give me life, only to stamp it out, according to His caprice? Why should I be the subject of such a hideous mockery?

With the longing of life, too, came the longing for something even deeper. For the moment my mind was bounded by no barriers. I saw infinite possibility, possibility which transcended all thought and imagination. It seemed to me that if man were a child of God, he possessed something of God's life, lived in Him, was part of Him, that he shared in God's Infinity and Eternity.

Then I looked at the woman by my side, and as I did so she seemed to shrivel up. She was a thing of a day, of an hour. She did not seem to share in this Eternal Life of which I had been thinking. All the time she clutched my arm convulsively.

At that moment I heard footsteps on the drive, and saw Hugh Lethbridge coming towards us.

"Where are you going, Hugh?" I asked.

"Going!" he cried. "I am going to the only place a man can go at a time like this. I am going to my wife."

"Your father has said nothing more to you?"

"I have not seen him. He has not come to me, and I could not go to him; but I have seen mother. She knows, she understands."

"Are you walking back, then?"

"Walking?" Then he laughed. "Oh, I see, you are thinking about the car. It is not my car now. My father has disinherited me, disowned me; this place is no longer my home; but I would do it again, Erskine, I would do it a thousand times. Good-night, Bella, old girl. What have you and Erskine been talking about?"

"But I shall see you again, Hugh?" said Isabella Lethbridge, without seeming to notice the question.

"You will have to come early to-morrow morning, if you do," he replied, with a laugh. "I am under orders now, and must report myself to-morrow afternoon. Don't worry, old girl."

"I will make father forgive you, I'll simply make him."

Hugh laughed sceptically.

"You might as well think of moving Routor, or Brown Willie, as think of moving my father; and you know it, Bella; but mother's a trump. Do you know, mother sees more of this business than I have ever seen. I told her just now that I was going to the front almost immediately, and I don't think she ever expects to see me alive again; but she behaved like a saint in heaven. She sees into the heart of this war—sees why England must fight, why it is our duty to crush German militarism; sees why we must save Belgium. You and I have often laughed, Bella, but her mind, or rather her heart, has probed the thing to its very depths. She has made me believe more in religion during the last few minutes I have been with her than I have believed in all my life. She quoted some words from the Bible, which opened a new world for me—'Without shedding of blood, there is no remission of sins.' She spoke like one inspired. I cannot explain the meaning of it, I only know that as she repeated the passage I felt its meaning;—and she made me feel I was doing a great thing. I was no longer going to the war simply at the call of my country, but at the call of God. Good-night, Bella, old girl; shall I see you to-morrow?"

"Where can I see you, Hugh?"

"At my wife's home," he said proudly. "Will you dare father's anger, and come?"

Her only reply was to throw her arms round her brother's neck and kiss him, and then, without even looking at me, she rushed rapidly towards the house.

When I reached my little hut that night, I paid the penalty for the excitement through which I had passed. At one time I thought I was going to die. Pain such as I had never suffered before racked me, and I was as weak as a child. It was not until morning that the pain subsided, and I was able to sleep. I, too, had intended to go to John Treleaven's house, and give Hugh a word of cheer as he left to join his regiment; but nature was too strong for me. I did not awake till after midday, and Simpson had been too wise to interfere with nature's healing balm.

I had expected during the time I was suffering so terribly that it would be many days before I was restored to my ordinary strength, and yet, strange as it may seem, I awoke refreshed. Evidently there was enough vitality in my system to enable me to recuperate quickly.

"There is bad news, sir," said Simpson, after I had dressed.

"Bad news! How? Where?" I asked.

"The Germans are driving us back everywhere, sir, driving the French too. Do you think the Army would take me, sir, if I offered myself? I'd like to have a smack at them."

"How old are you, Simpson?"

"Fifty-five, sir."

"It may be that they will be obliged to take you before the war is over."

"I am ready now, sir, if they will have me."

During the afternoon I tried to forget the interview of the previous night in some experiments with the hobby which had occupied my mind for several weeks. I had become quite efficient in the management of my little wireless apparatus, and I was greatly interested in the little book of codes which the young fellow from M—— had given me.

When evening came I determined, in spite of what I had suffered on the previous night, to find my way to the village schoolroom. As I have said before, I wanted to feel the pulse of humanity, longed to know what was doing in the world; and living here, in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, it seemed my only chance of fulfilling my desire.

When I arrived, the little schoolroom was nearly full. There were but few young men, not more than a score in all. The rest of the audience was made up of women and older men. On the platform was the Squire, who presided over the meeting, and near him were several of the leading people of the district. Both the vicars of St. Issey and St. Eia were there, together with one or two neighboring squires. Naturally, Josiah Lethbridge was absent.

I took my seat in a corner of the room, as far out of sight as possible, and tried to understand the little audience which had gathered together. I suppose every county has its characteristics, and certainly a Cornish audience is different from any I have seen. Years ago, I had been informed, the people were exceedingly emotional, and easy to be moved. That, however, was a thing of the past. There was no suggestion of excitement or enthusiasm, and while each and all seemed to listen carefully to what was being said, it was difficult to tell what their feelings were. On the whole, I think I never saw a less responsive audience, if one might judge from outward appearances.

A lady with quite a county reputation for singing was at the meeting, and while there are few parts of the country where there is stronger love for music than in Cornwall, she seemed to make little impression on her audience. Yet perhaps I am wrong in saying this. They appreciated the sweetness of her voice and the melody of her songs, but the sentiment which those songs expressed went for nothing. I have heard audiences spoken of as stolid. The audience at St. Issey was not stolid; it was stony. The people were keenly alert, they understood all that was being said, and in a way appreciated all the speeches; but they sat coldly critical, and unmoved.

Squire Treherne made a model chairman. He came to them, he said, as a friend and neighbor. He had known most of them all their lives, and he felt it his duty to point out to them, at this time of national danger, the needs of the times and the duties of the people. He spoke of what Cornwall had done in the history of the nation; he reminded them of stirring events in the life of the county, when Cornishmen had done their part and more than their part.

Then he went on to describe the circumstances which had led to the war. He described Germany's preparations, told the story of what had taken place in the Balkan States, and related how Sir Edward Grey had done his utmost to avert the war; but the time had come when war could not be averted, and when England had to take her part in it. Her honor was at stake, her safety was in peril, all that we loved was in danger, and every man in the country was called upon to play his part. The Squire did not give a brilliant speech, but it was full of good common sense, full of patriotic fervor. The old man did not see how any Englishman could stand aloof at a time like this.

Other speakers followed, who simply repeated what the Squire had said, and presently came the appeal for young men to offer themselves to their King and Country.

No one knows how I longed to be able to respond to that appeal. It seemed to me that, commonplace as the speeches were, no man could, who bore a British name, or had British blood in his veins, keep back. But I could do nothing; I was a useless hulk doomed to die. I eagerly scanned the faces of the young men who were near me, anxious to catch some suggestion of response to the speakers' appeals, but no one seemed moved. Each listened attentively to all the arguments that were adduced, but no man made a sign. Never, as it seemed to me, had I seen a more saddening sight, and presently, when the meeting was about to close, and the audience prepared to depart, I yielded to an overwhelming impulse. I knew it was madness on my part to do so, but I could not resist it. After all, what did it matter whether I shortened my days or not? I could not fight for my country, but perhaps I could persuade others to do so.

As the chairman was on the point of asking the people to rise and sing the national anthem, I got up and asked to be allowed to say a few words. Of course, consent was immediately given, and I saw some of the people, who were on the point of leaving, resume their seats, as I made my way to the platform. Indeed, I could not help feeling that there was a wave of more than ordinary interest passing over the audience, as they saw me preparing to address them.

I had not the slightest idea of what I wished to say. Indeed, as I stood up and faced the people, my mind was a perfect blank. I had simply yielded to an overwhelming impulse, without having any definite message to deliver.

Usually making speeches had been no difficulty to me. I had not been a barrister for several years without having had some practice in the art. Nevertheless, I felt a strange nervousness as I faced these simple country-people. I had nothing to say, and there seemed no reason why I should be there. I stood for a few seconds in silence, while the people waited; then, looking in one corner of the hall, I saw Isabella Lethbridge. She was looking at me intently, her eyes were shining brightly, and her lips were parted, as if with eager anticipation.

Immediately my thoughts took shape, and words came easily. At that moment, too, a wave of passion passed over me. I remembered what Hugh Lethbridge had done; knew that even now he had left his wife, left his home, left everything at the call of his country; and as I saw a score of stalwart youths, sitting together in the back part of the room utterly unmoved by all that had passed, a feeling of hot anger filled me. I scarcely knew what I said. It did not seem to matter; but something seemed to catch fire within me, and in a few moments I realized that the audience had caught fire too. Cheer after cheer burst forth. Only one thing do I remember saying, and that I thought afterwards was in anything but good taste.

"I have come to you," I said, "as a dying man. One of the greatest physicians in London has told me that my days are numbered, that I must avoid all excitement, that I must take care that I do not over-exert myself; that if I do, my life hangs on a thread; but I feel I cannot sit still, although this meeting may kill me, while you are unresponsive."

This gave me a kind of text for the appeal I made. I knew I spoke in hot, passionate words. I forgot everything in my desire to rouse the people to a sense of duty. I saw that the faces of the people had become set and stern, I noticed that their eyes were shining with a new light, and I felt that influences were at work which had hitherto been absent. This made me forget the madness of my action, made me careless of my own life. Nothing at that moment seemed to matter but the cause for which I was pleading.

"What are you going to do?" I cried. "Will you not respond to the call of your King and of your Country? Will you not fight for liberty, truth, and honor? As for me...." Then a great darkness came over me, and I remembered no more.

When I awoke to consciousness, I was sitting in a little anteroom, at the back of the platform, where around me stood the Vicar, the Squire, and two or three others.

"Are you better?"

"I am quite all right," I replied. "What is the matter?"

"You were overcome, exhausted. I am afraid you ought not to have spoken."

"Was it in vain, then?" I asked.

"Oh, no; half a dozen young fellows came out at the close of your appeal. I do not think it was because of what you said so much, but the fact that you were ill, and risked your life in trying to arouse them, which made them feel ashamed. Are you sure you are better?"

"I am quite all right," I repeated. "I cannot understand how I came to lose consciousness."

"I am going to run you up in my carriage," said the Squire; "I cannot think of allowing you to walk."

"There is not the slightest need for that," I replied; and as if to prove my words I walked across the room.

"Still, I am going to drive you home," said the Squire. "I am afraid I ought not to have let you speak, even although you have done what we all failed to do."

As I walked into the schoolroom, a group of people waited, evidently anxious to hear about me, and an old man came up and gripped me by the hand.

"I be glad you be better, maaster," he said. "'Twas good to 'ear ee for sure; you made me think of John Guttridge, when he used to come down 'ere preachin'. Yes, maaster, you made some of them feel what cowards they was; but we Cornish be curious people. Besides, maaster, we be'ant used to this sort of thing, and spite of all you say, we ca'ant grip it like."

"How is that?" I asked.

"For forty year we've bin tould the other thing, maaster. Tha's how it is. For forty year we've bin tould that war was wrong; and now to be tould it be our duty—well, you see, we ca'ant clunk it. It do'ant seem right. It'll take a lot to git the thought fixed in our minds that the Lord would have us do this. When you can do that, maaster, there won't be no need for meetin's; the difficulty then will be to keep the boys back."

Although I did not reply, I felt that the old man had got to the heart of the thing. One could not eradicate the teachings of half a century in a day.

Immediately afterwards, the old man's words were driven from my mind; for coming towards me, with hand outstretched, was Isabella Lethbridge. I saw a look in her eyes that I had never seen before.

"Are you mad, Mr. Erskine?" she asked.

"I expect so," I replied.

"Oh, but I did envy you!" and her voice quivered. "It must be glorious to have the power to move people, even though——" Then she stopped, as if she thought it unwise to utter the thought that had come into her mind.

"Good-night;" and her voice was like a sob as she went out into the darkness.