One of the boys lying on the blood-wet mire in Flanders, was Donal's bitter thought, but he had had his kind hours to recall at the last moment--and even now she had them too.
Helen Muir from her seat at the window looking into the thick leafage of the trees saw him turn at the entrance and heard him mount the steps.
The days between them and approaching separation were growing shorter and shorter.

She thought this every morning when she awakened and realised anew that the worst of it all was that neither knew how short they were and that the thing which was to happen would be sudden--as death is always sudden however long one waits.

He had never reached even that _beginning_ of the telling--whatsoever he had to tell.

Perhaps it was coming now.

She had tried to prepare herself by endeavouring to imagine how he would look when he began--a little shy--even a little lovably awkward?
But his engaging smile--his quite darling smile--would show itself in spite of him as it always did.
But when he came into the room his look was a new one to her.