ling!"

Once again she was in his arms, once again did time cease, while the
lengthening shadows stole softly towards them; and a squirrel,
emboldened by their stillness, watched for a while with indulgent eyes.

At last the girl gently turned away, and the boy's arms fell to his
side.

"Molly, you've got a pin in your waistband. Look, you've pricked my
wrist."

"Billy, my dear, let me do it up. Why didn't you tell me, you poor old
boy?"

"I didn't notice it, I didn't even feel it, you darling."

The boy laughed gladly as she bound his handkerchief round the wounded
arm; and, bending forward, kissed her neck, just where the hair left
it, just where--but what had happened? Where was she? She had gone,
the trees had gone, the sun had set, and it was dark, terribly dark.

Once again that mighty drum beat close by, and voices came dimly
through a haze to the man's brain. Some one was touching him, a finger
was probing gently over his head, a sentence came to him as if from a
vast distance.

"Good God! Poor devil! If we have to go we must leave him. Any
movement would kill him at once."

"I won't have you touching the bandage that Molly has put on!" said the
man angrily. "My wrist will be quite all right; it's absurd to make a
fuss about a pin-prick."

And perhaps because there are sounds to which no man can listen
unmoved, the quiet-faced doctor drew out his hypodermic syringe. The
girl with the grey dress, her steps lagging a little with utter
physical weariness, paused at the foot of his bed, and waited with an
encouraging smile.

"Molly," he cried eagerly, "come and talk to me! I've been dreaming
about you."

But she merely continued to smile at him, though in her eyes there was
the sadness of a divine pity. Then once again something pricked his
arm. A great silence seemed to come down on him like a pall, a silence
that was tangible, in which strange faces passed before him in a
jumbled procession. They seemed to swing past like fishes drifting
across the glass window of an aquarium--ghostly, mysterious, and yet
very real. A man in a dirty grey uniform, with a bloodstained bandage
round his forehead, who leered at him; Chilcote, his company commander,
who seemed to be shouting and cheering and waving his arm; a sergeant
of his platoon, with a grim smile on his face, who held a rifle with a
fixed bayonet that dripped.

"All right, Chilcote," he shouted, "we'll have the swine out in a
minu