ain unto
God. I am the corn of God; let me be ground by the teeth of the wild
beasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ.... Pardon me in
this. I know what is expedient for me. I am but now beginning to be a
disciple.'

'Nelly dear--what do you mean?'

A faint little smile crossed Nelly's face.

'Oh, nothing--only;--' she sighed again--'It's so _splendid_! Such a
will!--such a faith! No one thinks like that now. No one is willing to
be "the corn of God."'

'Oh, yes they are!' said Hester, passionately. 'There are thousands of
men--and women--in this war, who are willing to do everything--suffer
everything--for others--their country--their people at home.'

'Well, then they're happy!--and why hold anyone back?' said Nelly, with
soft reproach. And letting her head drop on Hester's shoulder, she said,
slowly--

'Let me go, dear Hester--let me go! It's drudgery I want--_drudgery_'
she repeated with intensity. 'Something that I don't want to
do--something that's against the grain--all day long.' Then she laughed
and roused herself. 'Not much likeness between me and St. Ignatius, is
there?'

Hester considered her gravely.

'When people like you are wrestling all day and every day with something
too hard for them, their strength gives way. They think they can do it,
but they can't.'

'My strength won't give way,' said Nelly, with quiet conviction. Then,
after pausing a moment, she said with a strange ardour--'I once heard a
story--a true story--of a man, who burnt his own hand off, because it
had struck his friend. He held it in a flame till there was only the
burnt stump, and after that he forgave himself and could bear to live
again.'

'But whom have you struck, you poor child!' cried Hester.

'_George_!' said Nelly, looking at her with bitterly shining eyes.

Hester's arms enfolded her, and they talked far into the night. Before
they separated, Hester had agreed that the date of Nelly's departure
should be not postponed, but quickened.

And during the few remaining days they were together, Hester could only
notice with growing amazement the change in all the small ways and
habits that had once characterised Nelly Sarratt--especially since her
Torquay illness; the small invalidisms and self-indulgences, the
dependence on a servant or on Bridget. Now the ascetic, penitential
passion had come upon her; as it comes in different forms, upon many a
man or woman in the _selva oscura_ of their life; and