"You must have been buried alive there," said Cicely, with commiseration
in her voice.

"I wanted to be buried alive," said Yeovil. "The news from the outer
world was not of a kind that helped a despondent invalid towards
convalescence. They spoke to me as little as possible about what was
happening, and I was grateful for your letters because they also told me
very little. When one is abroad, among foreigners, one's country's
misfortunes cause one an acuter, more personal distress, than they would
at home even."

"Well, you are at home now, anyway," said Cicely, "and you can jog along
the road to complete recovery at your own pace. A little quiet shooting
this autumn and a little hunting, just enough to keep you fit and not to
overtire you; you mustn't overtax your strength."

"I'm getting my strength back all right," said Yeovil. "This journey
hasn't tired me half as much as one might have expected. It's the awful
drag of listlessness, mental and physical, that is the worst after-effect
of these marsh fevers; they drain the energy out of you in bucketfuls,
and it trickles back again in teaspoonfuls. And just now untiring energy
is what I shall need, even more than strength; I don't want to degenerate
into a slacker."

"Look here, Murrey," said Cicely, "after we've had dinner together to-
night, I'm going to do a seemingly unwifely thing. I'm going to go out
and leave you alone with an old friend. Doctor Holham is coming in to
drink coffee and smoke with you. I arranged this because I knew it was
what you would like. Men can talk these things over best by themselves,
and Holham can tell you everything that happened--since you went away. It