“Didn’t you love him?” asked the girl, staring. “Wouldn’t you have helped him?” “Is he brainy?” he whispered after a minute.!

“No,” she answered, “it could be circulated just as well from, say, Birmingham or Manchester.” “What does Madge think of him?” asked Joan.

The blood was flowing back into her veins. “Oh, it wasn’t your fault,” she answered. “We must make the best we can of it.” Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep’s head. “How would you like it done?” she whispered. She walked home instead of taking the bus. She wanted to think. A day or two would decide the question. She determined that if the miracle did not happen, she would go down to Liverpool. Her father was on the committee of one of the great hospitals; and she knew one or two of the matrons. She would want to be doing something—to get out to the front, if possible. Maybe, her desire to serve was not altogether free from curiosity—from the craving for adventure. There’s a spice of the man even in the best of women.