“Do not leave me now,” I said to Amroth.  “There seems so much that I have to ask you.  And if your work with me is done, where are you now going?”

“Where am I going, brother?” said Amroth.  “Back to life again, and immediately.  And there is one thing more that is permitted, and that is that you should be with me to the last.  Strange that I should have attended you here, to the very crown and sum of life, and that you should now attend me where I am going!  But so it is.”

“And what do you feel about it?” I said.

“Oh,” said Amroth, “I do not like it, of course.  To be so free and active here, and to be bound again in the body, in the close, suffering, ill-savoured house of life!  But I have much to gain by it.  I have a sharpness of temper and a peremptoriness—­of which indeed,” he said, smiling, “you have had experience.  I am fond of doing things in my own way, inconsiderate of others, and impatient if they do not go right.  I am hard, and perhaps even vulgar.  But now I am going like a board to the carpenter, to have some of my roughness planed out of me, and I hope to do better.”

“Well,” I said, “I am too full of wonder and hope just now to be alarmed for you.  I could even wish I were myself departing.  But I have a desire to see Cynthia again.”

“Yes,” said Amroth, “and you will see her; but you will not be long after me, brother; comfort yourself with that!”

We walked a little farther across the moorland, talking softly at intervals, till suddenly I discerned a solitary figure which was approaching us swiftly.

“Ah,” said Amroth, “my time has indeed come.  I am summoned.”

He waved his hand to the man, who came up quickly and even breathlessly, and handed Amroth a sealed paper.  Amroth tore it open, read it smilingly, gave a nod to the officer, saying “Many thanks.”  The officer saluted him; he was a brisk young man, with a fresh air; and he then, without a word, turned from us and went over the moorland.

“Come,” said Amroth, “let us descend.  You can do this for yourself now; you do not need my help.”  He took my hand, and a mist enveloped us.  Suddenly the mist broke up and streamed away.  I looked round me in curiosity.

We were standing in a very mean street of brick-built houses, with slated roofs; over the roofs we could see a spire, and the chimneys of mills, spouting smoke.  The houses had tiny smoke-dried gardens in front of them.  At the end of the street was an ugly, ill-tended field, on which much rubbish lay.  There were some dirty children playing about, and a few women, with shawls over their heads, were standing together watching a house opposite.  The window of an upper room was open, and out of it came cries and moans.

“It’s going very badly with her,” said one of the women, “poor soul; but the doctor will be here soon.  She was about this morning too.  I had a word with her, and she was feeling very bad.  I said she ought to be in bed, but she said she had her work to do first.”