yer with him, and Penny agreed in the
half-jesting words: "But you'll--have to do it all for me, just as
you poured the tea down. I'm no good at that sort of thing."

And, when the prayer was over, he said with his old haughtiness:

"You know, padre--I was thinking--while you prayed. I suppose I've
led a selfish life--seeking my own ends--but, by Jove, I've had my
good time--and am ready to pay for it--if I must." His eyes flashed
defiantly. "If God puts me through it, _I_ shan't whine."

As the end drew nearer, he turned more and more into a child. After
all, he had never come of age. He spoke about his mother, sending
her his love, and saying: "I'm afraid, padre, that I led her a
life--but I'll bet she'd rather have had me and my plagues than not.
Don't you think so?"

He mentioned us with affection as "those two kids," and sent the
message that he hoped we at least should come through all right.

And then the lazy eyes closed in their last weariness, the impudent
lips parted, and Penny was dead. The War had beaten him. It was too
big a circumstance for him to tame.

Sec.6

The night we heard of it, Doe threw himself into a chair and said:

"I'm miserable to-night, Rupert."

"So'm I," said I, looking out of the window over a moonlit sea.
"Poor old Penny. I don't know why it makes one feel a cur, but it
does, doesn't it?"

"Surely," answered Doe.

For a time we smoked our pipes in silence. I gazed at the long
silver pathway that the light of the moon had laid on the sea. Right
on the horizon, where the pathway met the sky, a boat with a tall
sail stood black against the light. Fancifully I imagined that its
dark shape resembled the outline of a man--say, perhaps, the figure
of Destiny--walking down the sparkling pathway towards us. I was in
the mood to fancy such things. Then Doe from his chair said:

"Old Penny always took the lead with us, didn't he? He's taken it
again."

"I don't see what you mean," answered I.

"Oh, it doesn't matter what I mean. I'm depressed to-night."

We spoke of it with the Colonel the next afternoon, when we were
having tea in his private room.

"It doesn't seem fair," complained Doe. "He could have done anything
with his life," and he added rather tritely: "Penny's story which
might have been monumental is now only a sort of broken pillar over
a churchyard grave."

"Nonsense," snapped the Colonel. "It was splendid, perfectly
splendid." And he arose from his chair an