"Look here, Ben," said Colonel Staveley, "something awful's happened and I want your help."

He was unusually smart in appearance, Ben noticed.

"Tell me quickly," she said.

"It's in this cable," said the Colonel. "Merrill's husband."

Ben read the message, which stated that the Rev. Egbert Bourne had died of pneumonia in Minneapolis a day or so before.

"Merrill's got to be told," said the Colonel.

"Of course," said Ben. "You'll go down at once, won't you?" She reached for the "A.B.C."

"Well, the fact is," said the Colonel, "I can't. Most unfortunate, but I've got an old engagement for to-day and I can't get out of it. One of those postponed things which it's idiotic to put off any more. For three years now I've promised to go to Ascot and each time something has occurred."

"But surely Belle wouldn't mind—considering everything," said Ben.

"Belle?" replied her father. "Oh, yes! But it isn't Belle. Belle doesn't care about racing. It's Lady Dunster. I should take Belle too, of course, if she wanted; feel it my duty to; but she doesn't care about racing, and it would be too absurd to disappoint Lady Dunster again. On such a fine day, too. And, after all, it isn't as if he died here. All those thousands of miles away! So I thought you'd be the good, kind girl you always are and just nip down to Astingham. I don't think it will be so very painful. Merrill never seemed to me to care much for him."

"I've got a taxi waiting," he went on, "so I'd better not stay any more. Of all forms of wasting money, letting a taxi tick up while it's standing still is the silliest."

And he was gone.

Ben's lips shaped themselves to whistle, but no sound came. "It's lucky for us that mother had some nice feelings," she permitted herself to think.

She called Jan.

"I've got to go down to the country," she said, "and I may stay the night. Tell Miss Marquand to open everything and act as if she were me."

"No one could do that," said the loyal Jan.

"Well, as nearly as possible then," said Ben. "This is my address if you want anything special," and she hurried off.

At the station she sent a telegram to Merrill to announce her imminence, and then she settled down in the compartment to consider the situation.

Poor old Egbert, she thought. What an arid life! To a large extent wasted, with the kind of waste that is going on on all sides. What did he marry for? He thought he was in love, or, at any rate, in need of Merrill. But he wasn't. He no sooner acquired her than he forgot her; she became furniture; all he wanted was himself and the opportunity to get on with his foolish book, which didn't matter to anyone. Everything was sacrificed to that; his blood turned to ink; he ceased to be interested in actual present-day life; his sympathy changed to a pedantic curiosity; he gave what was meant for his fellow-creatures to a Biblical tribe that had been dead for thousands of years.

And how many other men were like him? They didn't all write about the Hittites, but they had their absorbing Hittites all the same, whether business Hittites or play Hittites, and so their altar promises became scraps of paper and the precious hours slipped away. What a muddle! What a muddle!

And Merrill? Fortunately she was of a more equable nature than so many a neglected wife; fortunately she had no great depths, or, at any rate, if she had, no man had discovered them. Egbert had been lucky in his choice. Many another woman would have taken things into her own hands and have secretly saved something from the wreck. But Merrill was too light-hearted, too simple. And now perhaps she would marry again—she was only a little over thirty—and be happy: marry a plus-four man, with a taste for dancing and the theatre, who, if he ever thought of the Hittites at all, thought of them as a Central African race who made bearers for hunters of big game.

That was Merrill's right husband, and they would have a large house in the country, and two or three children, and come to town for the season, and if he did any work at all it would be purely as a J.P.

There was nothing to meet Ben at the station, and when she reached the Vicarage the first thing she saw was her unopened telegram on the hall table.

Mrs. Bourne was playing golf, said the maid.

Poor Merrill, what ought to be done? Ben wondered. Was it fair to spoil her game? But, on the other hand, was it fair to let her go on and give a chance to malicious tongues?

Ben decided to walk to the links, and no sooner did she get there and observe Merrill and her partner than she realized that in all probability the plus-four man had already arrived.

Merrill, under the solicitous tuition of this tall and very good-looking country gentleman, was about to dig out the ball with a heavy iron when she caught sight of her younger sister.

At first she could not believe it, and then, "Ben, you darling!" she exclaimed, flung away the club and was in her arms.

"Whoever thought of seeing you here!" she went on. "But how splendid! Let me introduce Captain Andrews."

After a few conventional words, the Captain, who had tact as well as good looks, said that since Ben was there he would ask Mrs. Bourne to release him from his engagement to lunch with her; nor would he take any refusal.

For this Ben was very grateful to him, and it set him high in her estimation.

"But I want you to know my sister," said Merrill.

"And I want to know her," he said; "but to-day, I am sure, you have much to talk about. I'll order the car and drive you home."

It was while Merrill was in the club-house that Ben had an opportunity of speaking to the Captain.

"That was very thoughtful of you," she said; and she told him the nature of her errand.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, but in accents, she fancied, more of surprise, or even relief, than of sorrow. "Good God! I think," he added, after a moment, "I'll send my shover with you. Perhaps you will be so kind as to make my apologies to your sister," and he walked away.

"Is Captain Andrews married?" Ben asked, as they whirled along.

"No," said Merrill.

"Does he live near here?"

"Yes," said Merrill. "Between Petersfield and Midhurst. He's got a beautiful place. And now you darling," she said, "tell me truly why you came down. Much as you love my beaux yeux I know it wasn't for them."

"It was to fill them with tears," said Ben.

"What do you mean?" Merrill asked anxiously. "What has happened?"

"Egbert," said Ben.

"Egbert? Not dead?" said Merrill.

"Yes," said Ben. "In America, pneumonia."

"Merciful heavens!" Merrill exclaimed.

Grief and joy can inhabit amicably a very small house. But in Merrill's case grief was rather more like pity, and joy a consciousness of release. Only a dazed consciousness, though, at the moment.

"Poor Egbert, poor old Egbert," she murmured. "He didn't have much fun." And then, "Poor Egbert, what a long way to go to die!"

She was silent for a long while.

"I suppose I ought to do things," she said.

"Of course," said Ben. "There is so much to do. You must write to his relations. No one knows but you, I believe. You must write to the Bishop about the living. You will have to get clothes."

"I suppose so," said Merrill. "Yes, of course, clothes."

"And you ought to cable to America."

"What about?" Merrill asked.

"Well, what do you want done with—with Egbert? Sometimes they embalm——"

"Oh, no, he must be buried there," said Merrill. "Not here. Dying so far away, he must be buried far away. He had no real interest in this place. Some day, perhaps, I might go over there and see his grave. Where was it?"

"Minneapolis," said Ben.

"Yes, he was to lecture there," said Merrill.

"Some day—oh," she exclaimed, "I must let Captain Andrews know!"

"He does know," said Ben. "I told him."

Merrill looked at her. "That's why he sent the chauffeur," she said. "I see." Her perplexity gave way for a moment to a smile.

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