. And so, gently and quietly, with his eyes fixed on the empty
fireplace, he told her the story. There are thousands of similar
stories which could be told in the world to-day, but the pathos of each
one is not diminished by that. It was the story of the ordinary man
who died that others might live. He did not die in the limelight; he
just died and was buried and his name, in due course appeared in the
casualty list. . . .

Not that Vane put it that way. He painted his picture with the touch
of glamour; he spoke of a charge, of Vernon cheering his men on, of
success. Into the peaceful drawing-room he introduced the atmosphere
of glory--unwittingly, perhaps, he fell back on the popular conception
of war. And the woman, who hung on every word, silent and tearless,
thrilled with the pride of it. Her man, running at the head of
others--charging--dying at the moment of victory. . . . It would be
something to tell her two boys, when their turn came to face the battle
of life; something which would nerve them to the success which her man
would have won except for. . . .

Vane's voice died away. He had finished his story, he had painted his
picture. No suspicion had he given that a stray bit of shell had torn
Vernon to bits long after the tumult and the shouting had ceased.
After all, he was dead . . . it was the living who counted. No man
could have done more. Surely he deserved the white lie which pictured
his death more vividly--more grandly. . . .

"He died in my arms," went on Vane after a little pause, "and his last
words were about you." He told her the few simple sentences, repeated
to her the words which a man will say when the race is run and the tape
is reached. God knows they are commonplace enough--those short
disjointed phrases; but God knows also that it is the little things
which count, when the heart is breaking. . . .

And, then, having told her once, perforce he had to tell her
again--just the end bit. . . . With the tears pouring down her cheeks
she listened; and though each word stabbed her to the heart
afresh--woman-like, she gloried in her pain.

"'God bless you, Nell,' and then he died," she said softly to herself,
repeating Vane's last sentence. "Ah! but you made good, my man. I
always knew you would some day. . . ."

It seemed to the man staring into the fireplace that he was very near
to holy ground; and suddenly he rose and strode to the window. With
eyes that were a trifle