his brows, as though at some thorn in the flesh. Poor George! But then,
all doctors were materialists at heart--splendid fellows, though; a fine
fellow, George, working himself to death out there in France. One must
not take them too seriously. He plucked a bit of sweetbrier and put it
to his nose, which still retained the shine of that bleaching ointment
Noel had insisted on his using. The sweet smell of those little rough
leaves stirred up an acute aching. He dropped them, and drew back. No
longings, no melancholy; one ought to be out, this beautiful morning!

It was Sunday; but he had not to take three Services and preach at least
one sermon; this day of rest was really to be his own, for once. It was
almost disconcerting; he had so long felt like the cab horse who could
not be taken out of the shafts lest he should fall down. He dressed with
extraordinary deliberation, and had not quite finished when there came a
knock on his door, and Noel's voice said: "Can I come in, Daddy?"

In her flax-blue frock, with a Gloire de Dijon rose pinned where it met
on her faintly browned neck, she seemed to her father a perfect vision
of freshness.

"Here's a letter from Gratian; George has been sent home ill, and he's
gone to our house. She's got leave from her hospital to come home and
nurse him."

Pierson read the letter. "Poor George!"

"When are you going to let me be a nurse, Daddy?"

"We must wait till you're eighteen, Nollie."