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THE WINDOWthunderbolt, fierce as a hawk at the head of his

men through the valley of death, had been shattered,

destroyed. Stormed at by shot and shell, boldly

we rode and well, flashed through the valley of

death, volleyed and thundered—straight into LilyBriscoe and William Bankes. He quivered; heshivered.

Not for the world would she have spoken tohim, realising, from the familiar signs, his eyesaverted, and some curious gathering together ofhis person, as if he wrapped himself about andneeded privacy into which to regain his equilib-rium, that he was outraged and anguished. Shestroked James’s head; she transferred to him whatshe felt for her husband, and, as she watched himchalk yellow the white dress shirt of a gentlemanin the Army and Navy Stores catalogue, thoughtwhat a delight it would be to her should he turnout a great artist; and why should he not? He hada splendid forehead. Then, looking up, as her hus-band passed her once more, she was relieved to findthat the ruin was veiled; domesticity triumphed;custom crooned its soothing rhythm, so that whenstopping deliberately, as his turn came round again,at the window he bent quizzically and whimsicallyto tickle James's bare calf with a sprig of something,she twitted him for having dispatched "that poor49