ain, after their brief,
beautiful interlude together, Lilamani discovered how those fifteen
months of ceaseless anxiety and ceaseless service had shaken her nerve.
Gladness of giving could now scarce hold its own against dread of
losing; till she felt as if her heart must break under the strain. It
did not break, however. It endured--as the hearts of a million mothers
and wives have endured in all ages--to breaking-point ... and beyond.
The immensity of the whole world's anguish at once crushed and upheld
her, making her individual pain seem almost a little thing----

They left her. And the War went on--disastrously, gloriously,
stubbornly, inconclusively; would go on, it seemed, to the end of Time.
One came to feel as if life free from the shadow of War had never been.
As if it would never be again----

END OF PHASE II.

PHASE III.

PISGAH HEIGHTS

CHAPTER I.

"No receipt openeth the heart, but a true friend."--FRANCIS
BACON.

As early as 1819 there had been a Desmond in India; a
soldier-administrator of mark, in his day. During the Sikh Wars there
had been a Desmond in the Punjab; and at the time of the Great Mutiny
there was a Punjab Cavalry Desmond at Kohat; a notable fighter, with a
flowing beard and an easy-going uniform that would not commend itself to
the modern military eye. In the year of the second Afghan War, there was
yet another Desmond at Kohat; one that earned the cross 'For Valour,'
married the daughter of Sir John Meredith, and rose to high distinction.
Later still, in the year of grace 1918, his two sons were stationed
there, in the self-same Punjab Cavalry Regiment. There was also by now,
a certain bungalow in Kohat known as 'Desmond's bungalow,' occupied at
present by Colonel Paul Desmond, now in Command.

That is no uncommon story in India. She has laid her spell on certain
families; and they have followed one another through the generations, as
homing birds follow in line across the sunset sky. And their name
becomes a legend that passes from father to son; because India does not
forget. There is perhaps nothing quite like it in the tale of any other
land. It makes for continuity; for a fine tradition of service and
devotion; a tradition that will not be broken till agitators and
theorists make an end of Britain in India. But that day is not yet; and
the best elements of both races still believe it will never be.

Certainly neither Paul nor Lance Desmond