smooth and unstirred by restless tossing inside the mosquito net.

The Rev. Francis was out, sitting by the bed of a dying parishioner. He
watched the long hours through, dressed as he had been in the afternoon,
in a grey flannel suit, his thin neck too long and too spare for his
all-around collar, and as he watched sometimes and sometimes prayed, he
too felt the pressure of the night.

The woman he prayed beside was dying and quite unconscious of his
presence. Now and then, to relieve the strain, he got up and stood by
the window, looking at the lights against the sky and thinking very
definitely of something that troubled him and drew his lips into a
tight, thin line. He was a young man of the type described usually as
"zealous" and "earnest," and a light that was almost the light of
fanaticism shone in his eyes. A dying parishioner was no more of a
novelty to Mr. Heath, than one of Mrs. Wilder's dinner-parties was to
her guests, and yet the woman on the bed appealed to his pity as few
others had done in his experience.

When the doctor came he nodded to the clergyman and just touched the
hand on the quilt. He was in evening dress, and he explained that he had
been detained owing to his hostess having been taken suddenly ill.

"Where is Rydal himself?"

He asked the question carelessly, dropping the pulseless wrist.

"Who can tell?" said the Rev. Francis Heath.

"He'd better keep out of the way," continued the doctor. "I believe