The stars came out, and a light easterly wind sprang up, sending ripples across the tarn, and stirring last year’s leaves among the new grass.  It had grown chilly, and Sarratt took Nelly’s blue cloak from his arm and wrapped her in it—­then in his arms, as she rested against him.  Presently he felt her hand drop languidly from his, and he knew that—­not the walk, but the rush of those half-spoken thoughts which held them both, had brought exhaustion.

‘Darling—­we must go home!’ He bent over her.

She rose feebly.

‘Why am I so tired?  It’s absurd.’

‘Let me carry you a little.’

‘You couldn’t!’ She smiled at him.

But he lifted her with ease—­she was so small and slight, while in him a fresh wave of youth and strength had risen, with happiness, and the reaction of convalescence.  She made no resistance, and he carried her down some way, through the broad mingled light.  Her face was hidden on his breast, and felt the beating of his life.  She said to herself more than once that to die so would be bliss.  The marvel of love bewildered her.  ‘What was I like before it?—­what shall I be, when he is gone?’

When she made him set her down, she said gaily that she was all right, and gave him a kiss of thanks, simply, like a child.  The valley lay before them with its scattered lights, and they pressed on through the twilight—­two dim and spectral figures—­spirits it seemed, who had been on the heights sharing ambrosial feasts with the Immortals, and had but just descended to the common earth again.

* * * * *

Nelly spent the next three days, outside their walks and boatings on the lake, in whatever wifely offices to her man still remained to her—­marking his new socks and khaki shirts, furnishing a small medicine chest, and packing a tin of special delicacies, meat lozenges, chocolate, various much advertised food tabloids, and his favourite biscuits.  Sarratt laughed over them, but had not the heart to dissuade her.  She grew paler every day, but was always gay and smiling so long as his eyes were on her; and his sound young sleep knew nothing of her quiet stifled weeping at those moments of the night, when the bodily and nervous forces are at their lowest, and all the future blackens.  Miss Martin paid them several visits, bringing them books and flowers.  Books and flowers too arrived from Carton—­with a lavish supply of cigarettes for the departing soldier.  Nelly had the piteous sense that everyone was sorry for her—­Mrs. Weston, the kind landlady, Milly, the little housemaid.  It seemed to her sometimes that the mere strangers she met in the road knew that George was going, and looked at her compassionately.

The last day came, showery in the morning, and clearing to a glorious evening, with all the new leaf and growing hayfields freshened by rain, and all the streams brimming.  Bridget came over in the afternoon, and as she watched her sister’s face, became almost kind, almost sympathetic.  George proposed to walk back part of the way to Ambleside with his sister-in-law, and Nelly with a little frown of alarm watched them go.