Of low successes. Only suffering draws
The inner heart of song, and can elicit
The perfumes of the soul."
Epic of Hades.

Next week, Lawrence went off like a hero to the war; and my friend--
also I think like a hero--stayed on at Bath, enduring as best he
could the worst form of loneliness; for undoubtedly there is no
loneliness so frightful as constant companionship with an
uncongenial person. He had, however, one consolation: the Major's
health steadily improved, under the joint influence of total
abstinence and Bath water, and, with the improvement, his temper
became a little better.

But one Saturday, when I had run down to Bath without writing
beforehand, I suddenly found a different state of things. In Orange
Grove I met Dr. Mackrill, the Major's medical man; he used now and
then to play whist with us on Saturday nights, and I stopped to
speak to him.

"Oh! you've come down again. That's all right!" he said. "Your
friend wants someone to cheer him up. He's got his arm broken."

"How on earth did he manage that?" I asked.

"Well, that's more than I can tell you," said the Doctor, with an
odd look in his eyes, as if he guessed more than he would put into
words. "All that I could get out of him was that it was done
accidentally. The Major is not so well--no whist for us to-night,
I'm afraid."