a quiet, self-controlled woman, isn't she?" she asked.

"Entirely self-controlled and very quiet," he answered.

"Then if you will speak to Dr. Beresford about it I know he will allow
her to see Captain Muir for a few minutes. And, thank God, it's not
because if she doesn't see him now she'll never see him alive again. He
has all his life before him."

"Please sit down, Nurse," Coombe spoke hastily and placed a chair as he
spoke. He did so because he had perceiving eyes.

She sat down and covered her face with her apron for a moment. She made
no sound or movement, but caught a deep quick breath two or three times.
The relaxed strain had temporarily overpowered her. She uncovered her
face and got up almost immediately. She was not likely to give way
openly to her emotions.

"Thank you, Lord Coombe," she said. "I've never had a case that gripped
hold of me as this has. I've often felt as though that poor half-killed
boy was more to me than he is. You might speak to Dr. Beresford now.
He's just gone in."

* * * * *

Therefore Lord Coombe went that afternoon to the house before which grew
the plane trees whose leaves had rustled in the dawn's first wind on the
morning Donal had sat and talked with his mother after the night of the
Dowager Duchess of Darte's dance.

On his way his thoughts were almost uncontrollable things and he knew
the first demand of good sense was that he should control them. But he
was like an unbelievable messenger from another world--a dark world
unknown, because shadows hid it, and would not let themselves be pierced
by streaming human eyes. Donal was dead. This was what would fill this
woman's mind when he entered her house. Donal was dead. It was the
thought that had excluded all else from life for her, though he knew she
had gone on working as other broken women had done. What did people say
to women whose sons had been dead and had come back to life? It had
happened before. What _could_ one say to prepare them for the
transcendent shock of joy? What preparation could there be?

"God help me!" he said to himself with actual devoutness as he stood at
the door.

He had seen Helen Muir once or twice since the news of her loss had
reached her and she had looked like a most beautiful ghost and shadow of
herself. When she came into her drawing-room to meet him she was more of
a ghost and shadow than when they had last met and he saw her lips
quiver at the mer