work hammering nails into his coffin."

Many touching stories might be told of the sympathy which unites the combatants when they find themselves lying side by side, wounded and helpless, in shell-holes and copses, or on the open plain after an engagement. The ruling spirit which animates the soldier in the fury of the fight is, as it seems to me, that of self-preservation. He kills or disables so that he may not be killed or disabled himself. Each side, in their own opinion, are waging a purely defensive war. So it is that the feeling of hostility subsides, once the sense of danger is removed by the enemy being put out of action, and each side sees in its captives not devils or barbarians, but fellow men. Especially among the wounded, British and Germans, do these sentiments prevail, as they lie stricken together on the field of battle. In a dim way they pitifully regard each other as hapless victims caught in the vortex of the greatest of human tragedies, and they sometimes wonder why it was they fought each other at all. They try to help each other, to ease each other's sufferings, to staunch each other's wounds; to give each other comfort in their sore distress.

"Poor devil; unnerved by shell shock," was the comment passed as a wounded German was being carried by on a stretcher sobbing as if his heart would break. It was not the roar of the artillery and the bursting of high explosives that had unnerved him, but the self-sacrifice of a Dublin Fusilier who in succoring him lost his own life. At the hospital the German related that on recovering his senses after being shot he found the Dublin Fusilier trying to staunch the wound in his shattered leg, from which blood was flowing profusely. The Irishman undid the field-dressing, consisting of bandage and antiseptic preparation, which

LIVING AGE, VOL. VII, No. 318.

he had wrapped round his own wound and applied it to the German as he appeared to be in danger of bleeding to death. Before the two men were discovered by a British stretcher party the Dublin Fusilier had passed away. He developed blood-poisoning through his exposed wound. The German, on hearing the news, broke down and wept bitterly.

Reconciliation between wounded foemen is, happily, a common occurrence on the stricken plain. The malignant roar of the guns may still be in their ears, and they may see around them bodies battered and twisted out of all human shape. All the more are they anxious to testify that there is no fury in their hearts with each other, and that their one wish is to make the supreme parting with prayers and words of loving kindness on their lips. I have had from a French officer, who was wounded in a cavalry charge early in the war, an account of a pathetic incident which took place close to where he lay. Among his companions in affliction were two who were far gone on the way to death. One was a private in the Uhlans and the other a private in the Royal Irish Dragoons. The Irishman got, with a painful effort, from an inside pocket of his tunic a rosary of beads which had a crucifix attached to it. Then he commenced to mutter himself the invocations to the Blessed Virgin, of which the Rosary is composed. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus." The German, lying huddled close by, stirred with the uneasy movements of a man weak from pain and loss of blood on hearing the murmur of prayer, and, looking round in a dazed condition, the sight of the beads in the hands of his fellow in distress seemed to recall to his mind other times and different circumstances

to

-family prayers at home somewhere in Bavaria, and Sunday evening devotions in church-for he made, in his own tongue, the response to the invocation: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death. Amen." So the voices intermingled in address and prayer the rapt ejaculations of the Irishman, the deep guttural of the The Contemporary Review.

German-getting weaker and weaker, in the process of dissolution, until they were hushed on earth forevermore.

War has, outwardly, lost its romance with its color and pageantry. It is bloody, ugly, and horrible. Yet romance is not dead. It still survives, radiant and glowing, in the heroic achievements of our soldiers, and in the tender fancies of their hearts. Stephen Stapleton.

CHAPTER III.

During the next weeks Christina passed through that curious stage which follows an engagement. She experienced to the full Society's convention.

Popular interest has always been concentrated on those who are about to marry or about to die. The marriage jest is presumably as ancient as the world; perhaps the serpent made it originally at the expense of Adam and Eve. No amount of experience of the profound solemnity and danger of this union of two lives frightens Society out of its jesting and congratulation.

Christina was now a being set apart. Those who had seen her as what she was, a very ordinary young woman, looked at her with new interest. Other women gazed at her with a sort of awe. She had, as it were, passed a competitive examination; some one had found her meet to be a life partner. Her diamond ring was the hall-mark of success.

They came, week by week, ringing at the bell and asking if Mrs. Merridew were at home. They had come to congratulate both mother and daughter. They sipped their tea and gazed at Christina. When they said goodbye they pressed her hand and said, "How happy you must be.”

"How silly," thought Christina; "they must know that I'm miserable." Letters came by every post. All her brothers wrote, and her three sisters-in-law.

"What good news," they said; "we do congratulate you. How happy you must be." The servants treated Christina with new respect. They loved to see her ring flash. She was no longer ordinary, she was interesting and romantic, and inspired others with hope, for if Christina, why not these others?

Those who knew Mark Travis congratulated her sincerely. "He's a good fellow," they said; "you'll be happy with him."

Her real thoughts and feelings the girl kept to herself. She shrank from discussing them with her mother. For it seemed to her that Mrs. Merridew had forgotten the standpoint of youth. Christina believed but halfheartedly in the tepid, cautious judgments of old age. Yet she realized that generation after generation comes to the same conclusion, and that always the old have given the same counsels to heedless youth.

Christina's only comforter was her old school friend, Margaret Bailey, who lived near by. Margaret knew her as thoroughly as one schoolgirl knows another. They had looked into

each other's souls with calm scrutiny but had remained friends. Together they had loved, together they had sought the same shrines. Elder girls and school-mistresses had been the first to receive that gush of blind, ardent adoration whose source is the schoolgirl breast. They had confessed to each other shy, pure passions for unknown curates, even for grocers' assistants. Their mutual cognizance of the profound folly of their hearts had established a true freemasonry between them. Together they had gone circuitous ways to school on foolish pretexts that covered a longing to see some door or window from whence the beloved might peer. Together they had lingered at shop windows choosing imaginary presents for the dear object. They plumbed the sentimentality of their girlish love and found it fifty fathoms deep.

When each was really in love she grew shy and reticent, and only the symptoms were noted by the other. Christina's heartbreak, though it was apparent to Margaret, was not mentioned for long. There were periods of silence followed by a thunderstorm of confidence.

One of these storms took place on a February morning when Christina was cutting oranges for marmalade. She sat, clothed in a big apron, by the dining-room table. Her parents were out.

Margaret came in glowing from the cold air. She cast aside her coat and sat down to help her friend. They talked of indifferent matters for a time. Then Margaret said, "How pretty your ring is."

"Do you think so? Yes, I suppose it is. I don't think I care for a diamond bar myself."

"But it's very grand. Very expensive I should think. If my Herbert ever proposes to me he won't be able to afford anything more than turquoises or garnets."

"I'd as soon have garnets and"And what?"

"Oh! nothing; I don't know. Why have you never congratulated me, Margaret? You haven't! You're the only one who hasn't told me how lucky I am and how happy I must be." "Well, I know you're not happy." "But you know I ought to be."

"I don't know. How can a girl be happy who is going to take a step that alters all her life, upsets all her old conventions, and brings her responsibilities greater than she can guess?"

Christina continued to chop oranges. "That is it," she answered; "then why does everyone joke about marriage? Why has the convention grown up that a bride should be so happy? If she has any sense of responsibility she must be overwhelmed."

"I suppose if you love you can face

it."

Christina threw her knife down.

"Oh! that is it," she answered. "Why don't I? Why don't I? Margaret, I hate myself so. When I look into my heart I see myself as a worm some poor, blind, groveling thing."

Margaret opened her gray eyes wide. "Why?" she asked: "I don't suppose you're worse than other people. If you don't love Mr. Travis, you can't help it."

"But if he had dark wavy hair and large eyes I should love him. If he were tall and had nice black eyebrows, and a sudden flashing smile, I should love him. If his collars were different -if his coat didn't look baggy, if— oh! what a wretched creature I am. I can't see his soul because his face is ordinary."

"Yes," said Margaret, "he is ordinary. I think he's very nice indeed very nice. As a husband I'm sure he'll be delightful. But one him a lover. Poor

...

can't imagine

Chris! don't be angry with yourself,

I think we're all like that."

"Do you think so? I can't believe that anyone is so petty and horrid as I am. The heart of woman is infinitely wicked."

"Then don't think about it. I'm sure it's best not to look at one's thoughts when they're ugly. No one goes about without their clothes, and no one should go about in their minds. I think where conventions are kind and decent one should stick to them. Really, Chris, truth is much better at the bottom of the well."

"Then you think it'll be all right to go on?"

"If there's no one else I think it will be all right when it's done."

"If one could only try it for a year." ""Till death us do part.' Yes, it does frighten one. I don't wonder that the wedding service is so severe." "For myself I think that people about to be married should fast for a month, and then be clothed in sackcloth with ashes on their heads, and so come to the church where all the guests should be in black. That would show the seriousness of it."

Margaret laughed; but Christina having relieved some of the burden of her mind had grown more cheerful.

"If one weren't expected to be so happy it wouldn't be so bad," she said, “but it seems so hard to be miserable at what should be the happiest time of one's life. If one didn't want to be happy one would be happier." Margaret, who had little taste for paradox, was silent.

Christina developed her idea, groping her way along the well-beaten track of saints and sages.

"To get outside oneself that is happiness. People who are absorbed in some work or interest are happy because they leave themselves behind. Very good people who live horrid lives, that we should hate, they are happy. They have forgotten all the cravings and restlessness and dissatis

faction of being themselves. I used to think at one time when . . . when I was very unhappy, that I should like to be a Stoic philosopher and cease to feel anything, pain or happiness."

"That would be wrong," said Margaret shortly; "how unsympathetic you'd be. It's better to feel and to be miserable than not to feel. I'm sure of that, though I've never read a word of philosophy."

Christina continued her work. A wholesome sense of duty carried her from one day to the next. A life of detail kept her from too much consideration of abstract problems. In an artistic household Christina would have been more original and more interesting, but she would have acquired less common sense and restraint. The week-days went their jog-trot round of housekeeping, sewing, visiting, and attention to her father. Sunday was her lover's day. He came from Manchester on Saturday afternoon, and stayed at "Avalon" till Sunday evening. His visits soon acquired a certain routine. Christina and he went for a walk on Saturday afternoon. After supper, she played the piano. Mark Travis showed a marked preference for the Blue Danube Waltz. Polkas roused him to a "Bravo! that's jolly," while Chopin left him cold. In songs he liked a very obvious order of sentiment set to a popular tune. He was moved by ballads of orphans dying in the snow, and love songs of a caramel quality. The tune must be beaten out distinctly, chords in the bass and the melody in the treble. For him beauty was obvious, simple and very sweet. He was nervously ready with his praise lest Christina should think him unappreciative of her talent. And she, in ironic mood, would give him the obvious song and the insistent waltz, and would keep real music for tempestuous seasons of solitude,

On Sunday the affianced pair accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Merridew to church.

Mr. Merridew was a church warden. He had a strong sense of duty to the Church of his fathers. Unless it rained very severely, or he had lumbago, he always went out to Morning Prayer. He was bitterly scornful of those who called the service "Mattins."

On the first Sunday of the month he, his wife and daughter, waited for the celebration of Holy Communion which followed after Morning Prayer. It would have seemed to Mr. Merridew almost wrong to communicate on any Sunday but the first. Although he was a fierce foe to what he called "ritualistic nonsense," he was a born ritualist, as perhaps every human being is and will be till time is done. He was as much a ritualist as the old spaniel who never settled to sleep without his three turns, in honor of some primeval forefather. The inborn reverence for certain habits and methods approved by time was strong in the old man, but he detested the ritual of others.

Had anyone dared to exchange the alms-dish over the altar for a cross, Mr. Merridew would have grown indignant. The alms-dish had become part of the order of things and it is likely that the old man would have gone steadfastly to martyrdom for its sake. He would, no doubt, have died loyally for the eagle in preference to any other style of lectern. Dimly he believed that the Church of St. Etheldreda was representative of the belief of his fathers. He fancied that for this, just this, no more and no less, the fires of Smithfield had been kindled.

He had heard vaguely of the Oxford Movement, and he condemned it in two words as an innovation. He feared the Pope as his father had feared Bonaparte. On the other hand, he had a rooted dislike for Non

conformity. To him a gentleman must be an English churchman. The Almighty had, it was clear, created the Church of England and established it safely, so that English gentlemen might have a faith entirely suited to themselves. No gentleman could be a dissenter. This he thought obvious. Among the phenomena of life was the fact that certain old families were born Roman Catholics, a freak of heredity to his mind. But he sympathized with those who upheld the tradition. What was good enough for the grandfather was good enough for the grandson; he set his face against innovations.

There was something impressive in the old man's erect bearing as he walked up the church and took the corner seat of the pew, shutting the oak door carefully after him. His was neither the attitude of the Pharisee nor of the Publican, it was the attitude of the good son who stands respectful but unshamed in his Father's presence.

He listened to the service attentively. He would discuss it thoroughly at the Sunday dinner. He was very critical, and disliked anything strange or fantastic or modern in the discourse. At the last hymn he rose, took the plate from behind him and went forth to collect the alms of the faithful. When he reached the chancel steps, he always deposited half a crown on the pile. This was his ritual, and he adhered to it loyally.

Christina had grown up to accept this order of things. It did not satisfy her, but she was scarcely aware of dissatisfaction. She had not the piety nor the concentration of her parents, and she wearied of the long service. There was no artistic or emotional appeal in the plain church with its bare walls, its ugly windows, its heavy gas chandeliers and wellcushioned pews.