en coming at intervals," he remarked. "I'm going to send
you up a cup of bovril in a minute. . . ."

Vane turned them over rapidly in his hand, and found that there were
only two that counted. He looked at the postmarks to get them in the
right sequence, and eagerly pulled out the contents of the first. It
had been written four days after he left Melton.

"Dear lad, I'm leaving here to-morrow, and am going back to Blandford;
but before I go I want to tell you something. A man is not a very good
judge of a woman's actions at any time; he's so apt to see them through
his own eyes. He reasons, and becomes logical, . . . and perhaps he's
right. But a woman doesn't want reasons or logic--not if she's in
love. She wants to be whirled up breathlessly and carried away, and
made to do things; and it doesn't matter whether they're right or
wrong--not if she's in love. Maybe you were right, Derek, to go away;
but oh! my dear, I would to God you hadn't."

A nurse came in with a cup of bovril, and put it on the table by his
bed, and Vane turned to her abruptly.

"Where are my clothes, Nurse?"

"You'll not be wanting clothes yet awhile," she answered with a smile.
"I'm coming back shortly to tidy you up," and Vane cursed under his
breath as she left the room.

Then he picked up the second letter and opened it. At first he thought
it was a blank sheet of paper, and then he saw that there were a few
words in the centre of the page. For a moment they danced before his
eyes; then he pulled himself together and read them.

"''Tis well for those who have the gift
To seize him even as he flies. . . .'

"Oh! you fool--you fool! Why didn't you?"

That was all, and for a long while he lay and stared at the bare wall
opposite.

"Why didn't you?" The words mocked him, dancing in great red letters
on the pale green distemper, and he shook his feet at them childishly.

"It's not fair," he raved. "It's simply not fair."

And the god in charge took a glance into the room, though to the man in
bed it was merely a ray from a watery sun with the little specks of
dust dancing and floating in it.

"Of no more account than a bit of dirt," he muttered cynically. "It
wasn't my fault. . . . I never asked to be torpedoed. I only did what
I thought was right." He buried his head in his hands with a groan.

The nurse came once more into the room, and eyed him reproachfully.
"The bovril is quite cold," she said picking