The torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. The

survivors of the people scattered over the country--leaderless,

lawless, foodless, like sheep without a shepherd--the thousands who

had fled by sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing

stronger and stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour

across the vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of

the destroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened

skeletons of houses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of the

hill, would presently be echoing with the hammers of the restorers and

ringing with the tapping of their trowels. At the thought I extended

my hands towards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought

I--in a year. . .

With overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife, and

the old life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for ever.

248

The War of the Worlds