"Just the same. The doctor says we shall know in a few hours now. How
sweet of you to come! You must be tired, in this heat. It was dreadful
to spoil your holiday."

"My dear! As if--May I go up and see him?"

George Laird was still lying in that stupor. And Pierson stood
gazing down at him compassionately. Like most parsons, he had a wide
acquaintance with the sick and dying; and one remorseless fellowship
with death. Death! The commonest thing in the world, now--commoner than
life! This young doctor must have seen many die in these last two years,
saved many from death; and there he lay, not able to lift a finger to
save himself. Pierson looked at his daughter; what a strong, promising
young couple they were! And putting his arm round her, he led her away
to the sofa, whence they could see the sick man.

"If he dies, Dad--" she whispered.

"He will have died for the Country, my love, as much as ever our
soldiers do."

"I know; but that's no comfort. I've been watching here all day; I've
been thinking; men will be just as brutal afterwards--more brutal. The
world will go on the same."

"We must hope not. Shall we pray, Gracie?"

Gratian shook her head.