But his brain was working, and he said presently-- 'After I was struck, I hated my body.

I'd--I'd like to commit my spirit to God--but not my body!' Then again--very faintly-- 'It was only your body, Aubrey--not your soul.

Poor old Aubrey!' Then he dozed off again, with intervals of pain.
At eight o'clock Pamela came in--a vision of girlish beauty in spite of watching and tears, in her white dressing-gown, the masses of her hair loosely tied.
She sat down by him, and the nurse allowed her to give him milk and brandy.

Paralysis in the lower limbs was increasing, but the brain was clear, and the suffering less.
He smiled at her, after the painful swallowing was over.
'Why!--you're so like mother, Pamela!' He was thinking of the picture in the 'den.' She raised his hand, and kissed it--determined to be brave, not to break down.
'Where's Broomie ?' he whispered.
'She'd like to come and see you, Dezzy.

Dezzy, darling!--I was all wrong.