ow too; all his men just worship him."

"Oh, Bob, can't you understand?" her voice was almost inaudible.

"Yes, yes, I understand, but don't trouble about me one little bit; I
shall be all right. There--go now, they want you."

"Do you really wish me to go, Bob?"

"Of course I do; it's your duty, and duty is everything in these days;
it's hard and stern now, but by and by it'll become joyful."

"And when the war is over?" she stammered--"I--I . . ."

"It won't be over yet for a long time; still, we must keep a brave
heart. You remember those lines of William Blake, Nancy? I used to
laugh at them because he mixed his metaphors, but I see their meaning
now:

"I will not cease from mental strife,
Nor shall the sword sleep in my hand,
Till I have built Jerusalem,
In England's good and pleasant land."

There, get back Nancy; perhaps we shall see each other again, before I
go?"

Without another word she went back to her grim and horrible work; her
feet seemed like lead as she dragged them across the open space which
lay between her and the great, gaunt building.

"He will not see," she said to herself; "he doesn't want to see, and he
hates me."

As for Bob, he sat a long while alone, in silence. "It's jolly hard on
her," he said presently, "and I can't understand it; but she didn't
deny that she was engaged to him, and, after all, he's a better man
than I."

Day followed day, and he didn't see Nancy again; he was far removed
from her in another part of the great hospital. Train load after train
load of wounded men were brought there, and she had to be at her post
almost night and day. He longed to seek her out and to speak to her
amidst the loathsome work she had to do, but the discipline which
obtained forbade him to do so; besides, as he reflected, he could do no
good; it would only make the wound in his heart bleed more than ever.

Presently he was pronounced fit for duty again, and orders came that he
must make his way to the front. Fifty men besides himself who were
also recovered from their wounds were to accompany him.

The train was waiting at the little station close by, and at noon that
day he was to leave the hospital. By this time he had become
accustomed to the place, and knew several of the nurses whose duty lay
at his end of the hospital; he also had become on good terms with many
of the men.

An hour before the time had come for him to go he had gone out in the
open space w