and he's quite well."

"And then?" queried the other affectionately.

"Oh, he doesn't know at all, but he says he doesn't think there's any
chance of his getting up the line. He'll be sent to another part where
there is likely to be a shortage of chaplains soon."

"Well, that's all right, isn't it? He's in no danger at Rouen, at any
rate. If we go on as we're going on now, they won't even hear the guns
down there soon. Come, little girl, what's worrying you? I can see
there's something."

They were in the street now, walking towards the park, and Hilda did not
immediately reply. Then she said: "What are you going to do? Can't you
come in for a little? Father and mother will be out till late, and you
can keep me company."

He glanced at his watch. "I've got to be at the War Office later," he
said, "but my man doesn't reach town till after ten, so I will. The
club's not over-attractive these days. What with the men who think one
knows everything and won't tell, and the men who think they know
everything and want to tell, it's a bit trying."

Hilda laughed merrily. "Poor Uncle Bob," she said, giving him her
childhood's name that had never been discontinued between them. "You
shall come home with me, and sit in father's chair, and have a still
decent whisky and a cigar, and if you're very good I'll read you part
of Peter's letter."

"What would Peter say?"

"Oh, he wouldn't mind the bits I'll read to you. Indeed, I think he'd
like it: he'd like to know what you think. You see, he's awfully
depressed; he feels he's not wanted out there, and--though I don't know
what he means--that things, religious things, you know, aren't real."

"Not wanted, eh?" queried the old soldier. "Now, I wonder why he resents
that. Is it because he feels snubbed? I shouldn't be surprised if he had
a bit of a swelled head, your young man, you know, Hilda."

"Sir Robert Doyle, if you're going to be beastly, you can go to your
horrid old club, and I only hope you'll be worried to death. Of course
it isn't that. Besides, he says everyone is very friendly and welcomes
him--only he feels that that makes it worse. He thinks they don't
want--well, what he has to give, I suppose."

"What he has to give? But what in the world has he to give? He has to
take parade services, and visit hospitals and" (he was just going to say
"bury the dead," but thought it hardly sounded pleasant), "make himself
generally decent and useful, I suppose. That's what