“If he dies, Dad—­” she whispered.

“He will have died for the Country, my love, as much as ever our soldiers do.”

“I know; but that’s no comfort.  I’ve been watching here all day; I’ve been thinking; men will be just as brutal afterwards—­more brutal.  The world will go on the same.”

“We must hope not.  Shall we pray, Gracie?”

Gratian shook her head.

“If I could believe that the world—­if I could believe anything!  I’ve lost the power, Dad; I don’t even believe in a future life.  If George dies, we shall never meet again.”

Pierson stared at her without a word.

Gratian went on:  “The last time we talked, I was angry with George because he laughed at my belief; now that I really want belief, I feel that he was right.”

Pierson said tremulously: 

“No, no, my dear; it’s only that you’re overwrought.  God in His mercy will give you back belief.”

“There is no God, Dad”

“My darling child, what are you saying?”

“No God who can help us; I feel it.  If there were any God who could take part in our lives, alter anything without our will, knew or cared what we did—­He wouldn’t let the world go on as it does.”

“But, my dear, His purposes are inscrutable.  We dare not say He should not do this or that, or try to fathom to what ends He is working.”

“Then He’s no good to us.  It’s the same as if He didn’t exist.  Why should I pray for George’s life to One whose ends are just His own?  I know George oughtn’t to die.  If there’s a God who can help, it will be a wicked shame if George dies; if there’s a God who can help, it’s a wicked shame when babies die, and all these millions of poor boys.  I would rather think there’s no God than a helpless or a wicked God—­”

Her father had suddenly thrown up his hands to his ears.  She moved closer, and put her arm round him.

“Dad dear, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Pierson pressed her face down to his shoulder; and said in a dull voice: 

“What do you think would have happened to me, Gracie, if I had lost belief when your mother died?  I have never lost belief.  Pray God I never shall!”

Gratian murmured: 

“George would not wish me to pretend I believe—­he would want me to be honest.  If I’m not honest, I shan’t deserve that he should live.  I don’t believe, and I can’t pray.”

“My darling, you’re overtired.”

“No, Dad.”  She raised her head from his shoulder and, clasping her hands round her knees, looked straight before her.  “We can only help ourselves; and I can only bear it if I rebel.”

Pierson sat with trembling lips, feeling that nothing he could say would touch her just then.  The sick man’s face was hardly visible now in the twilight, and Gratian went over to his bed.  She stood looking down at him a long time.