I'll see to that--it can't do much harm.

The morphia will keep down the pain--and the poor lad will die happy.' And then there was much talk of plaster bandages, and some new mechanical appliance to prevent jolting--of the surgeon going home on leave who would take charge of the journey--of the nurses to be sent--and other matters of which he only retained a blurred remembrance.
The journey had been one long and bitter endurance.

And now Desmond was here--his son Desmond--lying for a few days in that white bed--under the old roof.

And afterwards a fresh grave in Fallerton churchyard--a flood of letters which would be burnt unread--and a world without Desmond.
Meanwhile, in a corner of the hall, Chicksands and Pamela were sitting together--hand in hand.

From the moment when he had gone down to Folkestone to meet them, and had seen Pamela's piteous and beautiful face, as she followed the stretcher on which Desmond lay, across the landing-stage of the boat, Chicksands' mind had been suddenly clear.