Vividly there had come before her the dark Abbey, and the moon balancing over the top of the crumbling wall, and the white owl flying across.  And, speaking to the air, she said: 

“It makes you do things that you want to do.”

She wondered if he would laugh—­it sounded so silly.  But he did not.

“And damn the consequences?  I know.  It’s rather a jolly thing to have.”

Noel shook her head.  “Here’s Daddy coming back!”

Fort held out his hand.

“I won’t stay.  Good night; and don’t worry too much, will you?”

He kept her hand rather a long time, and gave it a hard squeeze.

Don’t worry!  What advice!  Ah! if she could see Cyril just for a minute!

2

In September, 1916, Saturday still came before Sunday, in spite of the war.  For Edward Pierson this Saturday had been a strenuous day, and even now, at nearly midnight, he was still conning his just-completed sermon.

A patriot of patriots, he had often a passionate longing to resign his parish, and go like his curate for a chaplain at the Front.  It seemed to him that people must think his life idle and sheltered and useless.  Even in times of peace he had been sensitive enough to feel the cold draughty blasts which the Church encounters in a material age.  He knew that nine people out of ten looked on him as something of a parasite, with no real work in the world.  And since he was nothing if not conscientious, he always worked himself to the bone.

To-day he had risen at half-past six, and after his bath and exercises, had sat down to his sermon—­for, even now, he wrote a new sermon once a month, though he had the fruits of twenty-six years to choose from.  True, these new sermons were rather compiled than written, because, bereft of his curate, he had not time enough for fresh thought on old subjects.  At eight he had breakfasted with Noel, before she went off to her hospital, whence she would return at eight in the evening.  Nine to ten was his hour for seeing parishioners who had troubles, or wanted help or advice, and he had received three to-day who all wanted help, which he had given.  From ten to eleven he had gone back to his sermon, and had spent from eleven to one at his church, attending to small matters, writing notices, fixing hymns, holding the daily half-hour Service instituted during wartime, to which but few ever came.  He had hurried back to lunch, scamping it so that he might get to his piano for an hour of forgetfulness.  At three he had christened a very noisy baby, and been detained by its parents who wished for information on a variety of topics.  At half-past four he had snatched a cup of tea, reading the paper; and had spent from five to seven visiting two Parish Clubs, and those whose war-pension matters he had in hand, and filling up forms which would be kept in official places till such time as the system should be changed and a fresh set of forms issued.  From