little bread and milk, bathed himself, and ended this phase of his lesson with an ecstatic stretch on a couch that was heavenly to his wrenched limbs.  Before he sank over into the black sleep of exhausted men, he saw Henry Fullerton’s beautiful eyes bent on him.  The evangelist patted the young doctor’s shoulder and said, “God has sent a sign to show that you are a chosen worker; you durst not reject it; you have gone through the valley of the shadow of death, and you must not neglect the sign lest you displease the One who made you His choice.  I’ve heard already what the men say about you.  Now sleep, and I’ll bring you some soup when you wake.”

Like all the men who move the world, Fullerton was a practical man doubled with a mystic.  A mystic who has a wicked and supremely powerful intellect may move the nations of men and dominate them—­for a time—­yes, for a time.  Your Napoleon, Wallenstein, Strafford have their day, and the movement of their lips may at any time be the sign of extinction for thousands; the murder-shrieks of nations make the music that marks their progress; strong they are and merciless.  But they lean on the sword; they pass into the Night, leaving no soul the better for their tremendous pilgrimage.

But the good mystic plants influences like seed, and the goodly growths cover the waste places of the earth with wealth of fruit and glory of bloom.  I think of a few of the good mystics, and I would rather be one of them than rule over an empire.  Penn, George Fox, and General Gordon—­these are among the salt of the earth.

So the young man slept on, and the good folk who had come through peril as well, talked of him until I think his dreams must have been coloured with their praises.  The wounded seamen were carefully bestowed, and Tom Betts crawled out to greet them.

When Marion went down to see Withers, she said, “I was so grieved to see how you had to be thrown about; but never mind, I have made up my mind that very few more men shall suffer like that.  Now sleep, and the doctor shall see you when he has rested—­at least, I know he will.”

Then Withers took Miss Dearsley’s hand in his brown, ragged, cracked paw, and kissed it—­which is offence number three against the proprieties.  But then you know the soldiers used to kiss Florence Nightingale’s shadow!  Didn’t they?

CHAPTER V.

AFTER THE STORMS.

It was very pleasant on the third day that followed the gale; the sky once more took its steel-grey shade, the sharp breezes stole over gentle rollers and covered each sad-coloured bulge with fleeting ripples.  That blessed breeze, so pure, so crisp, so potently shot through with magic savours of iodine and ozone, exhilarates the spirits until the most staid of men break at times into schoolboy fun.  Do you imagine that religious people are dull, or dowie, as the Scotch say?  Not a bit of it.  They are the most