He walked slowly out to the road, holding in his hands, which were clasped behind him, the clove pink. Standing so, he looked across the fields to the river willows, from whence the shot had come. Slowly, clear-cut and in full sunshine, the scenes of that day passed through his mind. And after they had passed he turned and walked back to the schoolroom.
Sister Eila was seated at her desk, the papers lying before her.
He took them, buttoned them inside his tunic. She sat looking across the dim room, her elbow on the desk, her chin resting on her palm.
"There is no use trying to thank you," he said with an effort—and stopped.
After a silence:
"You are going into battle," she said.
"I hope so."
"Yes—I hope so.... God protect you, Mr. Halkett."
He could not seem to find his voice.
Perhaps the silence became unendurable to her; she fumbled for her rosary, lifted it, and took the metal crucifix between both hands.