seven to eight he was at home again, in case his flock wanted to see him; to-day four sheep had come, and gone away, he was afraid, but little the wiser.  From half-past eight to half-past nine he had spent in choir practice, because the organist was on his holiday.  Slowly in the cool of the evening he had walked home, and fallen asleep in his chair on getting in.  At eleven he had woken with a start, and, hardening his heart, had gone back to his sermon.  And now, at nearly midnight, it was still less than twenty minutes long.  He lighted one of his rare cigarettes, and let thought wander.  How beautiful those pale pink roses were in that old silver bowl-like a little strange poem, or a piece of Debussy music, or a Mathieu Maris picture-reminding him oddly of the word Leila.  Was he wrong in letting Noel see so much of Leila?  But then she was so improved—­dear Leila!...  The pink roses were just going to fall!  And yet how beautiful!...  It was quiet to-night; he felt very drowsy....  Did Nollie still think of that young man, or had it passed?  She had never confided in him since!  After the war, it would be nice to take her to Italy, to all the little towns.  They would see the Assisi of St. Francis.  The Little Flowers of St. Francis.  The Little Flowers!...  His hand dropped, the cigarette went out.  He slept with his face in shadow.  Slowly into the silence of his sleep little sinister sounds intruded.  Short concussions, dragging him back out of that deep slumber.  He started up.  Noel was standing at the door, in a long coat.  She said in her calm voice: 

“Zeps, Daddy!”

“Yes, my dear.  Where are the maids?”

An Irish voice answered from the hall:  “Here, sir; trustin’ in God; but ’tis better on the ground floor.”

He saw a huddle of three figures, queerly costumed, against the stairs.

“Yes, Yes, Bridgie; you’re safe down here.”  Then he noticed that Noel was gone.  He followed her out into the Square, alive with faces faintly luminous in the darkness, and found her against the garden railings.

“You must come back in, Nollie.”

“Oh, no!  Cyril has this every day.”

He stood beside her; not loth, for excitement had begun to stir his blood.  They stayed there for some minutes, straining their eyes for sight of anything save the little zagged splashes of bursting shrapnel, while voices buzzed, and muttered:  “Look!  There!  There!  There it is!”

But the seers had eyes of greater faith than Pierson’s, for he saw nothing:  He took her arm at last, and led her in.  In the hall she broke from him.

“Let’s go up on the roof, Daddy!” and ran upstairs.

Again he followed, mounting by a ladder, through a trapdoor on to the roof.

“It’s splendid up here!” she cried.

He could see her eyes blazing, and thought:  ’How my child does love excitement—­it’s almost terrible!’

Over the wide, dark, star-strewn sky travelling searchlights, were lighting up the few little clouds; the domes and spires rose from among the spread-out roofs, all fine and ghostly.  The guns had ceased firing, as though puzzled.  One distant bang rumbled out.