ing at this season. It was a thing Hildegarde did not like about him. She hated to see things killed.
Yet—after all—a quick death was not the worst thing that could happen to these flying things. Death was indeed not the worst thing that could happen to anybody; a chaplain who had come back from France had told him that.
"I did not pray to save my life. I prayed only to be kept from cowardice, and that if death came it might come quickly."
Strange thoughts for a boy on a morning like this. But youth dwells easily on these things. It is only when we are afraid of death that we dare not think of it.
He rode on, too, to the Point, and went in and sat down at one of the tables, wishing that Hildegarde were there. He spoke to the old man, Christopher, who pointed out Elizabeth and Louis Carew in the picture on the wall. Crispin stood for a long time looking at the picture. It was hard to believe that that young and gallant figure in hunting pink was the same Louis Carew he had seen that morning standing in the library door.
When he got back to the house he found no one was down. The drawing-room had been set in order, and a fire was blazing on the hearth, but it was still deserted; so, ascending the steps to the first landing, he sat by the Blue Window. Today it justified its name. The sky was swept clear of clouds, and there was little wind to ruffle the Bay. The blue sweep of water rose to meet the blue above it. It was like a sapphire curtain hanging down from the heavens.
