he had only dreamed it; but
there the words were, lying on the tablet before her. If she was real,
they were real.

It was so long since she had read anything about Akhnaton's
Aton-worship that she could not have composed the sentences in exactly
the manner of the Pharaoh's writing if she had set herself down in a
retired place and tried very hard to remember his style and his
language. Here, in this modern and vulgar tea-room, filled with men
and youths in khaki and shop-girls in cheap and showy finery, she had
suddenly and unconsciously written a thing which had absolutely nothing
to do with her thoughts or surroundings.

The girl who brought her coffee and was standing waiting to make out
her bill, looked at her sympathically and asked her if she felt ill.

At the sound of her voice, Margaret dragged her thoughts back to the
fact that she had been waiting for a cup of coffee.

"No," she said, jerkily. "I am not ill, only a little tired, thank
you."

"You're working hard, I suppose? One coffee, threepence," she jotted
down. "Are you in a hospital? I wish I was nursing, instead of doing
this."

Margaret looked at her blankly for a moment. She wished that she would
not talk to her; she felt afraid of her own answers.

"No, I'm not nursing--I'm a pantry-maid in a private convalescent
hospital."

"Well, I never!" the girl said; she was not ignorant of Margaret's good
breeding. "Do you like the work?"

"It's very like your work, I suppose. I never stop to think about
whether I like it or not. Someone has to do it, and I've been given
it--every little helps."

"Isn't that splendid?" the girl said. "And I don't suppose you ever
worked before?"

"Not in that way," Margaret said. She smiled a queer sort of smile, as
her thoughts flew back to her work in the hut, the cleaning and sorting
of delicate fragments and amulets which had been made and treasured by
a people of whom the girl had probably never even heard, the mascots
and art-treasures of a forgotten civilization, which had lasted for
thousands of years.

Margaret paid for her coffee, and looked at the clock. She had only a
few minutes in which to drink it. She poured in all the cream which
she had ordered to cool it, but still it was too hot to drink. While
she waited she wondered whether her hand would write anything else if
she left it lying on her writing pad. Nervously she took up her pencil
and while she tried to sip her coffee, she