"It's no end of a jolly place," was Jim's verdict. "I don't know that I wouldn't rather live here than in your mansion, Norah; but I suppose it wouldn't do."

"I think it would be rather nice," Norah said. "But you can't, because we want it for the Hunts. And it will be splendid for them, won't it, Dad?"

"Yes, I think it will do very well," said Mr. Linton. "We'll get the housekeeper to come down and make sure that it has enough pots and pans and working outfit generally."

"And then we'll go up to London and kidnap Mrs. Hunt and the babies," said Norah, pirouetting gently. "Now, shall we go and see the horses?"

They spent a blissful half-hour in the stables, and arranged to ride in the afternoon—the old coachman was plainly delighted at the absence of a chauffeur, and displayed his treasures with a pride to which he had long been a stranger.

"The 'orses 'aven't 'ad enough to do since Sir John used to come," he said. "The General didn't care for them—an infantry gent he must have been—and it was always the motor for 'im. We exercised 'em, of course, but it ain't the same to the 'orses, and don't they know it!"

"Of course they do." Norah caressed Killaloe's lean head.

"You'll hunt him, sir, won't you, this season?" asked Jones anxiously. "The meets ain't what they was, of course, but there's a few goes out still. The Master's a lady—Mrs. Ainslie; her husband's in France. He's 'ad the 'ounds these five years."

"Oh, we'll hunt, won't we, Dad?" Norah's face glowed as she lifted it.

"Rather!" said Jim. "Of course you will. What about the other horses, Jones? Can they jump?"

"To tell you the truth, sir," said Jones happily, "there's not one of them that can't. Even the cobs ain't too bad; and the black pony that's at the vet.'s, 'e's a flyer. 'E'll be 'ome to-morrow; the vet. sent me word yesterday that 'is shoulder's all right. Strained it a bit, 'e did. Of course they ain't made hunters, like Killaloe; but they're quick and clever, and once you know the country, and the short cuts, and the gaps, you can generally manage to see most of a run." He sighed ecstatically. "Eh, but it'll be like old times to get ready again on a hunting morning!"

The gong sounded from the house, and they bade the stables a reluctant good-bye. Lunch waited in the morning-room; there was a pleasant sparkle of silver and glass on a little table in the window. And there was no doubt that Miss de Lisle could cook.

"If her temper were as good as her pastry, I should say we had found a treasure," said Mr. Linton, looking at the fragments which remained of a superlative apple-pie. "Let's hope that Mrs. Moroney will discover a kitchenmaid or two, and that they will induce her to overlook our other shortcomings."

"I'm afraid we'll never be genteel enough for her," said Norah, shaking her curly head. "And the other servants will all hate her because she thinks they aren't fit for her to speak to. If she only knew how much nicer Allenby is!"

"Or Brownie," said Wally loyally. "Brownie could beat that pie with one hand tied behind her."

Allenby entered—sympathy on every line of his face.

"The 'ousekeeper—Mrs. Atkins—would like to see you, sir. Or Miss Linton. And so would Miss de Lisle."

But Miss de Lisle was on his heels, breathing threatenings and slaughter.

"There must be some arrangement made as to my instructions," she boomed. "Your housekeeper evidently does not understand my position. She has had the impertinence to address me as 'Cook.' Cook!" She paused for breath, glaring.

"But, good gracious, isn't it your profession?" asked Mr. Linton.

Miss de Lisle fairly choked with wrath. Wally's voice fell like oil on a stormy sea.

"If I could make a pie like that I'd expect to be called 'Cook,'" said he. "It's—it's a regular poem of a pie!" Whereat Jim choked in his turn, and endeavoured, with signal lack of success, to turn his emotion into a sneeze.

Miss de Lisle's lowering countenance cleared somewhat. She looked at Wally in a manner that was almost kindly.

"War-time cookery is a makeshift, not an art," she said. "Before the war I could have shown you what cooking could be."

"That pie wasn't a makeshift," persisted Wally. "It was a dream. I say, Miss de Lisle, can you make pikelets?"

"Yes, of course," said the cook-lady. "Do you like them?"

"I'd go into a trap for a pikelet," said Wally, warming to his task. "Oh, Norah, do ask Miss de Lisle if she'll make some for tea!"

"Oh, do!" pleaded Norah. As a matter of stern fact, Norah preferred bread-and-butter to pikelets, but the human beam in the cook-lady's eye was not to be neglected. "We haven't had any for ages." She cast about for further encouragement for the beam. "Miss de Lisle, I suppose you have a very special cookery-book?"

"I make my own recipes," said the cook-lady with pride. "But for the war I should have brought out my book."

"By Jove, you don't say so!" said Jim. "I say, Norah, you'll have to get that when it comes out."

"Rather!" said Norah. "I wonder would it bother you awfully to show me some day how to make meringues? I never can get them right."

"We'll see," said Miss de Lisle graciously. "And would you really like pikelets for tea?"

"Please—if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Very well." Jim held the door open for the cook-lady as she marched out. Suddenly she paused.

"You will see the housekeeper, Mr. Linton?"

"Oh, certainly!" said David Linton hastily. The door closed; behind it they could hear a tread, heavy and martial, dying away.

"A fearsome woman!" said Mr. Linton. "Wally, you deserve a medal! But are we always to lick the ground under the cook's feet in this fashion?"

"Oh, she'll find her level," said Jim. "But you'd better tell Mrs. Atkins not to offend her again. Talk to her like a father, Dad—say she and Miss de Lisle are here to run the house, not to bother you and Norah."

"It's excellent in theory," said his father sadly, "but in practice I find my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth when these militant females tackle me. And if you saw Mrs. Atkins you would realize how difficult it would be for me to regard her as a daughter. But I'll do my best."

Mrs. Atkins, admitted by the sympathetic Allenby, proved less fierce than the cook-lady, although by no stretch of imagination could she have been called pleasant.

"I have never worked with a cook as considered herself a lady," she remarked. "It makes all very difficult, and no kitchen-maid, and am I in authority or am I not? And such airs, turning up her nose at being called Cook. Which if she is the cook, why not be called so? And going off to her bedroom with her dinner, no one downstairs being good enough to eat with her. I must say it isn't what I'm used to, and me lived with the first families. Quite the first." Mrs. Atkins ceased her weary monologue and gazed on the family with conscious virtue. She was dressed in dull black silk, and looked overwhelmingly respectable.

"Oh, well, you must put up with things as they are," said Mr. Linton vaguely. "Miss de Lisle expects a few unusual things, but apparently there is no doubt that she can do her work. I hope to have more maids in a few days; if not"—a brilliant idea striking him—"I must send you up to London to find us some, Mrs. Atkins."

"I shall be delighted, sir," replied the housekeeper primly. "And do I understand that the cook is to have a separate sitting-room?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, ask Allenby!" ejaculated her employer. "It will have to be managed somewhere, or we shall have no cook!"



CHAPTER V

HOW THE COOK-LADY FOUND HER LEVEL

Two days later, the morning mail brought relief—not too soon, for there was evidence that the battle between the housekeeper and the cook-lady could not be much longer delayed, and Sarah was going about with a face of wooden agony that gave Norah a chilly feeling whenever she encountered her. Allenby alone retained any cheerfulness; and much of that was due to ancient military discipline. Therefore Mrs. Moroney's letter was hailed with acclamation. "Two maids she can recommend, bless her heart!" said Mr. Linton. "She doesn't label their particular activities, but says they'll be willing to do anything at all."

"That's the kind I like," said Norah thankfully.

"And their names are Bride Kelly and Katty O'Gorman; doesn't that bring Killard and brown bogs back to you? And—oh, by Jove!"

"What is it?" demanded his family, in unison.

"This is what it is. 'I don't know would your honour remember Con Hegarty, that was shofer to Sir John at Rathcullen, and a decent boy with one leg and he after coming back from the war. He have no job since Sir John died, and he bid me tell you he'd be proud to drive a car for you, and to be with ye all. And if he have only one leg itself he's as handy as any one with two or more. Sir John had him with him at Homewood, and he knows the car that's there, and 'tis the way if you had a job for him he could take the two girls over when he went, and he used to travelling the world.' That's all, I think," Mr. Linton ended.

"What luck!" Jim ejaculated. "We couldn't have a better chauffeur."

"I wonder we never thought of Con," said his father. "A nice boy; I'd like to have him."

"So would I," added Norah. "When will you get them, Dad?"

"I'll write at once and send a cheque for their fares," said her father. "I'll tell them to send me a telegram when they start." He rose to leave the room. "What are you going to do this morning, children?"

"We're all turning out the cottage," Norah answered promptly. "I haven't told Sarah; she disapproves of me so painfully if I do any work, and hurts my feelings by always doing it over again, if possible. At the same time, she looks so unhappy about working at all, and sighs so often, that I don't feel equal to telling her that the cottage has to be done. So Jim and Wally have nobly volunteered to help me."

"Don't knock yourself up," said her father. "Will you want me?"

"No—unless you like to come as a guest and sit still and do nothing. My two housemaids and I can easily finish off that little job. There's not really a great deal to do," Norah added; "the place is very clean. Only one likes to have everything extra nice when Tired People come."

"Well, I'm not coming to sit still and do nothing," said her father firmly, "so I'll stay at home and write letters." He watched them from the terrace a little later, racing across the lawn, and smiled a little. It was so unlikely that this long-legged family of his would ever really grow up.

The house was very quiet that morning. Mrs. Atkins and Miss de Lisle having quarrelled over the question of dinner, had retreated, the one to the housekeeper's room, the other to the kitchen. Sarah went about her duties sourly. Allenby was Sarah's uncle, and, as such, felt some duty to her, which he considered he had discharged in getting her a good place; beyond that, Sarah frankly bored him, and he saw no reason to let her regard him as anything else than a butler. "Bad for discipline, too!" he reflected. Therefore Allenby was lonely. He read the Daily Mail in the seclusion of his pantry, and then, strolling through the hall, with a watchful eye alert lest a speck of dust should have escaped Sarah, he saw his master cross the garden and strike across the park in the direction of Hawkins' farm. Every one else was out, Allenby knew not where. An impulse for fresh air fell upon him, and he sauntered towards the shrubbery.

Voices and laughter came to him from the cottage. He pushed through the shrubs and found himself near a window; and, peeping through, received a severe shock to his well-trained nerves. Norah, enveloped in a huge apron, was energetically polishing the kitchen tins; the boys, in their shirt-sleeves, were equally busy, Wally scrubbing the sink with Monkey soap, and Jim blackleading the stove. It was very clear that work was no new thing to any of the trio. Allenby gasped with horror.

"Officers, too!" he ejaculated. "What's the world coming to, I wonder!" He hesitated a moment, and then walked round to the back door.

"May I come in, please, miss?"

"Oh, come in, Allenby," Norah said, a little confused. "We're busy, you see. Did you want anything?"

"No, miss, thank you. But really, miss—I could 'ave got a woman from the village for you, to do all this. Or Sarah."

"Sarah has quite enough to do," said Norah.

"Indeed, Sarah's not killed with work," said that damsel's uncle. "I don't like to see you soilin' your 'ands, miss. Nor the gentlemen."

"The gentlemen are all right," said Wally cheerfully. "Look at this sink, now, Allenby; did you ever see anything better?"

"It's—it's not right," murmured Allenby unhappily. He threw off his black coat suddenly, and advanced upon Jim. "If you please, sir, I'll finish that stove."

"That you won't," said Jim. "Thanks all the same, Allenby, but I'm getting used to it now." He laughed. "Besides, don't you forget that you're a butler?"

"I can't forget that you're an officer, sir," said Allenby, wretchedly. "It's not right: think of the regiment. And Miss Norah. Won't you let me 'elp sir?"

"You can clean the paint, Allenby," said Norah, taking pity on his distressed face. "But there's really no need to keep you."

"If you'd only not mind telling any of them at the 'ouse what I was doing," said the butler anxiously. "It 'ud undermine me position. There's that Miss de Lisle, now—she looks down on everybody enough without knowin' I was doin' any job like this."

"She shall never know," said Jim tragically, waving a blacklead brush. "Now I'm off to do the dining-room grate. If you're deadly anxious to work, Allenby, you could wash this floor—couldn't he, Norah?"

"Thanks very much, sir," said Allenby gratefully, "I'll leave this place all right—just shut the door, sir, and don't you bother about it any more."

"However did you dare, Jim?" breathed Norah, as the cleaning party moved towards the dining-room. "Do you think a butler ever washed a floor before?"

"Can't say," said Jim easily. "I'm regarding him more as a sergeant than a butler, for the moment—not that I can remember seeing a sergeant wash a floor, either. But he seemed anxious to help, so why not let him? It won't hurt him; he's getting disgracefully fat. And there's plenty to do."

"Heaps," said Wally cheerily. "Where's that floor-polish, Nor? These boards want a rub. What are you going to do?"

"Polish brass," said Norah, beginning on a window-catch. "When I grow up I think I'll be an architect, and then I'll make the sort of house that women will care to live in."

"What sort's that?" asked Jim.

"I don't know what the outside will be like. But it won't have any brass to keep clean, or any skirting-boards with pretty tops to catch dust, or any corners in the rooms. Brownie and I used to talk about it. All the cupboards will be built in, so's no dust can get under them, and the windows will have some patent dodge to open inwards when they want cleaning. And there'll be built-in washstands in every room, with taps and plugs——"

"Brass taps?" queried Wally.

"Certainly not."

"What then?"

"Oh—something. Something that doesn't need to be kept pretty. And then there will be heaps of cupboard-room and heaps of shelf-room—only all the shelves will be narrow, so that nothing can be put behind anything else."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Jim.

"She means dead mice—you know they get behind bottles of jam," said Wally kindly. "Go on, Nor, you talk like a book."

"Well, dead mice are as good as anything," said Norah lucidly. "There won't be any room for their corpses on my shelves. And I'll have some arrangement for supplying hot water through the house that doesn't depend on keeping a huge kitchen fire alight."

"That's a good notion," said Jim, sitting back on his heels, blacklead brush in hand. "I think I'll go architecting with you, Nor. We'll go in for all sorts of electric dodges; plugs in all the rooms to fix to vacuum cleaners you can work with one hand—most of 'em want two men and a boy; and electric washing-machines, and cookers, and fans and all kinds of things. And everybody will be using them, so electricity will have to be cheap."

"I really couldn't help listening to you," said a deep voice in the doorway.

Every one jumped. It was Miss de Lisle, in her skimpy red overall—rather more flushed than usual, and a little embarrassed.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "I heard voices—and I didn't think any one lived here. I knocked, but you were all so busy you didn't hear me."

"So busy talking, you mean," laughed Wally. "Terrible chatterboxes, Jim and Norah; they never get any work done." A blacklead brush hurtled across the room: he caught it neatly and returned it to the owner.

"But you're working terribly hard," said the cook-lady, in bewilderment. "Is any one going to live here?"

Norah explained briefly. Miss de Lisle listened with interest, nodding her head from time to time.

"It's a beautiful idea," she said at length. "Fancy now, you rescuing those poor little children and their father and mother! It makes me feel quite sentimental. Most cooks are sentimental, you know: it's such a—a warm occupation," she added vaguely. "When I'm cooking something that requires particular care I always find myself crooning a love song!" At which Wally collapsed into such a hopeless giggle that Jim and Norah, in little better case themselves, looked at him in horror, expecting to see him annihilated. To their relief, Miss de Lisle grinned cheerfully.

"Oh, yes, you may laugh!" she said—whereupon they all did. "I know I don't look sentimental. Perhaps it's just as well; nobody would want a cook with golden hair and languishing blue eyes. And I do cook so much better than I sing! Now I'm going to help. What can I do?"

"Indeed, you're not," said Norah. "Thanks ever so, Miss de Lisle, but we can manage quite well."

"Now, you're thinking of what I said the other day," said Miss de Lisle disgustedly. "I know I did say my province was cooking, and nothing else. But if you knew the places I've struck. Dear me, there was one place where the footman chucked me under the chin!"

It was too much for the others. They sat down on the floor and shrieked in unison.

"Yes, I know it's funny," said Miss de Lisle. "I howled myself, after it was all over. But I don't think the footman ever chucked any one under the chin again. I settled him!" There was a reminiscent gleam in her eye: Norah felt a flash of sympathy for the hapless footman.

"Then there was another house—that was a duke's—where the butler expected me to walk out with him. That's the worst of it: if you behave like a human being you get that sort of thing, and if you don't you're a pig, and treated accordingly." She looked at them whimsically. "Please don't think me a pig!" she said. "I—I shall never forget how you held the door open for me, Mr. Jim!"

"Oh, I say, don't!" protested the unhappy Jim, turning scarlet.

"Now you're afraid I'm going to be sentimental, but I'm not. I'm going to polish the boards in the passage, and then you can give me another job. Lunch is cold to-day: I've done all the cooking. Now, please don't—" as Norah began to protest. "Dear me, if you only knew how nice it is to speak to some one again!" She swooped upon Wally's tin of floor-polish, scooped half of its contents into the lid with a hair-pin, commandeered two cloths from a basketful of cleaning matters, and strode off. From the passage came a steady pounding that spoke of as much "elbow-grease" as polish being applied.

"Did you ever!" said Jim weakly.

"Never," said Wally. "I say, I think she's a good sort."

"So do I. But who'd have thought it!"

"Poor old soul!" said Norah. "She must be most horribly dull. But after our first day I wouldn't have dared to make a remark to her unless she'd condescended to address me first."

"I should think you wouldn't," said Wally. "But she's really quite human when she tucks her claws in."

"Oh, my aunt!" said Jim, chuckling. "I'd give a month's pay to have seen the footman chuck her under the chin!" They fell into convulsions of silent laughter.

From the passage, as they regained composure, came a broken melody, punctuated by the dull pounding on the floor. Miss de Lisle, on her knees, had become sentimental, and warbled as she rubbed.

"'I do not ask for the heart of thy heart.'"

"Why wouldn't you?" murmured Wally, with a rapt expression. "Any one who can make pikelets like you——"

"Be quiet, Wally," grinned Jim. "She'll hear you."

"Not she—she's too happy. Listen."

"'All that I a-a-sk for is all that may be, All that thou ca-a-a-rest to give unto me! I do not ask'"——

Crash! Bang! Splash!

"Heavens, what's happened!" exclaimed Jim.

They rushed out. At the end of the passage Miss de Lisle and the irreproachable Allenby struggled in a heap—in an ever-widening pool of water that came from an overturned bucket lying a yard away. The family rushed to the rescue. Allenby got to his feet as they arrived, and dragged up the drenched cook-lady. He was pale with apprehension.

"I—I—do beg your pardon, mum!" he gasped. "I 'adn't an idea in me 'ead there was any one there, least of all you on your knees. I just come backin' out with the bucket!"

"I say, Miss de Lisle, are you hurt?" Jim asked anxiously.

"Not a bit, which is queer, considering Allenby's weight!" returned Miss de Lisle. "But it's—it's just t-too funny, isn't it!" She broke into a shout of laughter, and the others, who had, indeed, been choking with repressed feeling, followed suit. Allenby, after a gallant attempt to preserve the correct demeanour of a butler, unchanged by any circumstance, suddenly bolted into the kitchen like a rabbit. They heard strange sounds from the direction of the sink.

"But, I say, you're drenched!" said Jim, when every one felt a little better.

Miss de Lisle glanced at her stained and dripping overall.

"Well, a little. I'll take this off," she said, suiting the action to the word, and appearing in a white blouse and grey skirt which suited her very much better than the roseate garment. "But my floor! And I had it so beautifully polished!" she raised her voice. "Allenby! What are you going to do about this floor?"

"Indeed, mum, I've made a pretty mess of it," said Allenby, reappearing.

"You have, indeed," said she.

"But I never expected to find you 'ere a-polishin'," said the bewildered ex-sergeant.

"And I certainly never expected to find the butler scrubbing!" retorted Miss de Lisle; at which Allenby's jam dropped, and he cast an appealing glance at Jim.

"This is a working-bee," said Jim promptly. "We're all in it, and no one else knows anything about it."

"Not Mrs. Atkins, I hope, sir," said Allenby.

"Certainly not. As for Sarah, she's out of it altogether."

Allenby sighed, a relieved butler.

"I'll see to the floor, sir," he said. "It's up to me, isn't it? And polish it after. I can easy slip down 'ere for a couple of hours after lunch, when you're all out ridin'."

"Then I really had better fly," said Miss de Lisle. "I am pretty wet, and there's lunch to think about." She looked at them in friendly fashion. "Thank you all very much," she said—and was gone, with a kind of elephantine swiftness.

The family returned to the dining-room, leaving Allenby to grapple with the swamp in the passage.

"Don't we have cheery adventures when we clean house!" said Wally happily. "I wouldn't have missed this morning for anything."

"No—it has been merry and bright," Jim agreed. "And isn't the cook-lady a surprise-packet! I say, Nor, do you think you'd find a human side to Mrs. Atkins if we let Allenby fall over her with a bucket of water?"

"'Fraid not," said Norah.

"You can't find what doesn't exist," said Wally wisely. "Mrs. Atkins is only a walking cruet—sort of mixture of salt and vinegar."

They told the story to Mr. Linton over the luncheon-table, after Allenby had withdrawn. Nevertheless, the butler, listening from his pantry to the shouts of laughter from the morning-room, had a fairly good idea of the subject under discussion, and became rather pink.

"It's lovely in another way," Norah finished. "For you see, I thought Miss de Lisle wasn't human, but I was all wrong. She's rather a dear when you come to know her."

"Yes," said her father thoughtfully. "But you'll have to be careful, Norah; you mustn't make any distinctions between her and Mrs. Atkins. It doesn't matter if Miss de Lisle's pedigree is full of dukes and bishops—Mrs. Atkins is the upper servant, and she'll resent it if you put Miss de Lisle on a different footing to herself."

"Yes, I see," said Norah, nodding. "I'll do my best, Dad."

Miss de Lisle, however, played the game. She did not encounter Norah often, and when she did it was in Mrs. Atkins' presence: and on these occasions she maintained an attitude of impersonal politeness which made it hard to realize that she and the butler had indeed bathed together on the floor of the cottage. She found various matters in her little sitting-room: an easy-chair, a flowering pot-plant, a pile of books that bore Norah's name—or Jim's; but she made no sign of having received them except that Norah found on her table at night a twisted note in a masculine hand that said "Thank you.—C. de L." As for Mrs. Atkins, she made her silent way about the house, sour and watchful, her green eyes rather resembling those of a cat, and her step as stealthy. Norah tried hard to talk to her on other matters than housekeeping, but found her so stolidly unresponsive that at last she gave up the attempt. Life, as she said to Wally, was too short to woo a cruet-stand!

The week flew by swiftly, every moment busy with work and plans for the Tired People to come. Mrs. Atkins, it was plain, did not like the scheme. She mentioned that it would make a great deal of work, and how did Norah expect servants in these days to put up with unexpected people coming at all sorts of hours?

"But," said Norah, "that's what the house is for. My father and I would not want a houseful of servants if we didn't mean to have a houseful of people. What would we do with you all?" At which Mrs. Atkins sniffed, and replied haughtily that she had been in a place where there was only one lady, and she kept eleven servants.

"More shame for her," said Norah. "Anyhow, we explained it all to you when we engaged you, Mrs. Atkins. If we weren't going to have people here we should still be living in London, in a flat. And if the servants won't do their work, we shall just have to get others who will." Which was a terrible effort of firmness for poor Norah, who inwardly hoped that Mrs. Atkins did not realize that she was shaking in her shoes!

"Easier said than done, in war-time," said the housekeeper morosely. "Servants don't grow on gooseberry-bushes now, and what they don't expect——! Well, I don't know what the world's coming to." But Norah, feeling unequal to more, fled, and, being discovered by Wally and Jim with her head in her hands over an account-book, was promptly taken out on Killaloe—the boys riding the cobs, which they untruthfully persisted that they preferred.

Then came Tuesday morning: with early breakfast, and the boys once more in khaki, and Jones, in the carriage, keeping the browns moving in the chill air. Not such a hard parting as others they had known since for the present there was no anxiety: but from the days when Jim used to leave Billabong for his Melbourne boarding-school, good-bye morning had been a difficult one for the Lintons. They joked through it in their usual way: it was part of the family creed to keep the flag flying.

"Well, you may have us back at any time as your first Tired People," said Wally, his keen face looking as though it never could grow weary. "Machine-gun courses must be very fatiguing, don't you think, Jim?"

"Poor dears!" said Norah feelingly. "We'll have a special beef-tea diet for you, and bath-chairs. Will they send you in an ambulance?"

"Very likely, and then you'll be sorry you were so disrespectful, won't she, Mr. Linton?"

"I'm afraid you can't count on it," said that gentleman, laughing. "Norah's bump of respect isn't highly developed, even for me. You'll write soon, Jim, and tell us how you get on—and what your next movements are."

"Rather," answered Jim. "Don't let the lady of the house wear off all her curls over the accounts, will you, Dad? I'd hate to see her bald!"

"I'll keep an eye on her," said his father. "Now, boys; it's time you were off."

They shook hands with Allenby, to his secret gratification. He closed the carriage door upon them, and stood back at attention, as they drove off. From an upper window—unseen, unfortunately—a figure in a red overall leaned, waving a handkerchief.

The train was late, and they all stamped about the platform—it was a frosty morning.

"Buck up, old kiddie," said Jim. "We'll be home in no time. And look after Dad."

"Yes—rather!" said Norah. "Send me all your socks when they want darning—which is every week."

"Right." They looked at each other with the blank feeling of having nothing to say that comes on station platforms or on the decks of ships before the final bell rings. Then the train came in sight, the elderly porter, expectant of a tip, bustled mightily with suit-cases and kit-bags, and presently they were gone. The two brown faces hung out of the carriage-window until the train disappeared round a curve.

Norah and her father looked at each other.

"Well, my girl," said he. "Now I suppose we had better begin our job."

They went out to the carriage. Just as they were getting in, the ancient porter hurried after them.

"There's some people come by that train for you, sir."

The Lintons turned. A thin man, with sad Irish eyes, was limping out of the station. Behind him came two girls.

"Why, it's Con!" Norah cried.

"It is, miss," said the chauffeur. "And the gerrls I have with me—Bridie and Katty."

"But you didn't write," Mr. Linton said.

"Well, indeed, I was that rushed, an' we gettin' off," said Con. "But I give Patsy Burke the money and towld him to send the wire. But 'tis the way with Patsy he'll likely think it'll do in a day or two as well as any time." And as a matter of fact, the telegram duly arrived three days later—by which time the new arrivals had shaken down, and there seemed some prospect of domestic peace in the Home for Tired People.



CHAPTER VI

KIDNAPPING

Mrs. Hunt came slowly down the steps of a Park Lane mansion, now used as an officers' hospital. She was tired and dispirited; her steps dragged as she made her way towards Piccadilly. Beneath her veil her pretty face showed white, with lines of anxiety deepening it.

An officer, hurrying by, stopped and came eagerly to speak to her.

"How are you, Mrs. Hunt? And how's the Major?"

"Not very well," said Mrs. Hunt, answering the second part of the question. "The operation was more successful than any he has had yet, but there has been a good deal of pain, and he doesn't seem to pick up strength. The doctors say that his hand now depends a good deal upon his general health: he ought to live in the country, forget that there's a war on, and get thoroughly fit." She sighed. "It's so easy for doctors to prescribe these little things."

"Yes—they all do it," said the other—a captain in Major Hunt's regiment. "May I go to see him, do you think?"

"Oh, do," Mrs. Hunt answered. "It will cheer him up; and anything that will do that is good. He's terribly depressed, poor old boy." She said good-bye, and went on wearily.

It was a warm afternoon for October. Norah Linton and her father had come up to London by an early train, and, after much shopping, had lunched at a little French restaurant in Soho, where they ate queer dishes and talked exceedingly bad French to the pretty waitress. It was four o'clock when they found themselves at the door of a dingy building in Bloomsbury.

"Floor 3, the Hunts' flat, Daddy," said Norah, consulting a note-book. "I suppose there is a lift."

There was a lift, but it was out of order; a grimy card, tucked into the lattice of the doorway, proclaimed the fact. So they mounted flight after flight of stairs, and finally halted before a doorway bearing Major Hunt's card. A slatternly maid answered their ring.

"Mrs. Hunt's out," she said curtly. "Gorn to see the Mijor."

"Oh—will she be long?"

"Don't think so—she's gen'lly home about half-past four. Will yer wait?"

Norah looked at her father.

"Oh yes, we'll wait," he said. They followed the girl into a narrow passage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly, and a boy's voice was heard, angry and tired.

The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah stopped her as she was departing.

"Could I see the children?"

The girl hesitated.

"They're a bit untidy," she said sullenly. "I ain't had no time to clean 'em up. There ain't no one to take them for a walk to-day."

"Oh, never mind how untidy they are," said Norah hastily. "Do send them in."

"Oh, all right," said the girl. "You'll tell the missus it was you arsked for 'em, won't yer?"

"Yes, of course."

She went out, and the Lintons looked at each other, and then at the hopeless little room. The furniture was black horsehair, very shiny and hard and slippery; there was a gimcrack bamboo overmantel, with much speckled glass, and the pictures were of the kind peculiar to London lodging-houses, apt to promote indigestion in the beholder. There was one little window, looking out upon a blank courtyard and a dirty little side-street, where children played and fought incessantly, and stray curs nosed the rubbish in the gutters in the hope of finding food. There was nothing green to be seen, nothing clean, nothing pleasant.

"Oh, poor kiddies!" said Norah, under her breath.

The door opened and they came in; not shyly—the London child is seldom shy—but frankly curious, and in the case of the elder two, with suspicion. Three white-faced mites, as children well may be who have spent a London summer in a Bloomsbury square, where the very pavements sweat tar, and the breathless, sticky heat is as cruel by night as by day. A boy of six, straight and well-grown, with dark hair and eyes, who held by the hand a small toddling person with damp rings of golden hair: behind them a slender little girl, a little too shadowy for a mother's heart to be easy; with big brown eyes peeping elfishly from a cloud of brown curls.

The boy spoke sullenly.

"Eva told us to come in," he said.

"We wanted you to take care of us," said Norah. "You see, your mother isn't here."

"But we can't have tea," said the boy. "Eva says she isn't cleaned up yet, and besides, there's no milk, and very likely Mother'll forget the cakes, she said."

"But we don't want tea," said Norah. "We had a big lunch, not so long ago. And besides, we've got something nicer than tea. It's in his pocket." She nodded at her father, who suddenly smiled in the way that made every child love him, and, fishing in his pocket drew out a square white box—at sight of which the baby said delightedly, "Choc!" and a kind of incredulous wonder, rather pitiful to see, came into the eyes of Geoffrey and his sister.

"There's a very difficult red ribbon on this," said Mr. Linton, fumbling with it. "I can't undo it." He smiled at little Alison. "You show me how."

She was across the room in a flash, the baby at her heels, while Geoffrey made a slow step or two, and then stopped again.

"But you don't undone it 'tall," she said. "It sticks on top. You breaks this paper"—pointing to the seal—"and then it undones himself."

"You're quite right," said Mr. Linton, as the lid came off. "So it does. How did you know?"

"We did have lots of boxes when we lived with the wegiment," said the small girl; "but now the wegiment's in Fwance, and Daddy doesn't have enough pennies for chocs." Her busy fingers tossed aside tissue paper and silver wrapping, until the brown rows of sweets were revealed. Then she put her hands by her sides.

"Is we to have some?"

"Oh, you poor little soul!" said David Linton hurriedly, and caught her up on his knee. He held the box in front of her.

"Now, which sort do you think is best for weeshy boys like that?" he asked, indicating the baby, who was making silent dives in the direction of the box. "And which do you like?—and Geoffrey?"

"Michael likes these." She fished one out carefully, and Michael fell upon it, sitting on the carpet that he might devour it at his ease. "And Geoff and me—oh, we likes any 'tall."

"Then you shall have any at all." He held out his free hand. "Come on, Geoff." And the boy, who had hesitated, digging one foot into the carpet, suddenly capitulated and came.

"Are you an officer?" he asked presently.

"No, I'm too old," said David Linton. "But I have a big son who is one—and another boy too."

"What's their regiment?"

"The same as your father's."

"Truly?" A sparkle came into the boy's eyes. "I'm going to be in it some day."

"Of course you will—and Michael too, I suppose. And then you'll fight the Germans—that is, if there are any left."

"Daddy says there won't be. But I keep hoping there'll be just a few for me and Michael.'

"Alison wants some too," said that lady. "Wants to kill vem wiv my wevolver."

"A nice young fire-eater, you are," said Mr. Linton, laughing.

"Girls can't kill Germans, silly," said Geoffrey scornfully. "They have to stop at home and make bandages." To which his sister replied calmly, "Shan't: I'm going to kill forty 'leven," with an air of finality which seemed to end the discussion. Norah checked any further warlike reflections by finding a new layer of sweets as attractive as those on top, and the three heads clustered over the box in a pleasant anxiety of selection.

The carriages on the Tube railway had been very stuffy that afternoon. Mrs. Hunt emerged thankfully from the crowded lift which shot up the passengers from underground. She came with slow step into the dusty street. The flat was not far away: that was one comfort. But she sighed impatiently as she entered the building, to be confronted with the "Not Working" legend on the lift.

"Little wretch!" she said, alluding to the absent lift-boy. "I'm sure he's only playing pitch-and-toss round the corner." She toiled up the three long flights of stairs—her dainty soul revolting at their unswept dinginess. Stella Hunt had been brought up in a big house on a wind-swept Cumberland fell, and there was no day in crowded Bloomsbury when she did not long for the clean open spaces of her girlhood.

She let herself into the flat with her latch-key. Voices came to her from the sitting-room, with a gurgle of laughter from little Michael. She frowned.

"Eva should not have let the children in there," she thought anxiously. "They may do some damage." She opened the door hurriedly.

No one noticed her for a moment, David Linton, with Alison on one knee and Geoffrey on the other, was deep in a story of kangaroo-hunting. On the floor sat Norah, with Michael tucked into her lap, his face blissful as she told on his fat fingers the tale of the little pigs who went to market. The box of chocolates was on the table, its scarlet ribbon making a bright spot of colour in the drab room. The mother looked for a minute in silence, something of the weariness dying out of her eyes.

Then Geoffrey looked up and saw her—a slight figure, holding a paper bag.

"Hallo!" he said. "I'm glad you didn't forget the cakes, 'cause we've got people to tea!"

Mr. Linton placed his burden on the hearthrug, and got up.

"How are you, Mrs. Hunt? I hope you don't mind our taking possession like this. We wanted to get acquainted."

"I could wish they were cleaner," said Mrs. Hunt, laughing, as she shook hands. "I've seldom seen three grubbier people. Geoff, dear, couldn't Eva have washed your face?"

"She said she hadn't time," said Geoffrey easily. "We tried to wash Michael, but he only got more streaky."

"Oh, please don't mind, Mrs. Hunt," Norah pleaded. "They've been such darlings!"

"I'm afraid I don't mind at all," said Mrs. Hunt, sitting down thankfully. "I've been picturing my poor babies tired to death of not being out—and then to come home and find them in the seventh heaven——" She broke off, her lip quivering a little.

"You're just as tired as you can be," said Norah. "Now you're going to rest, and Geoff will show me how to get tea."

"Oh, I couldn't let you into that awful little kitchen," said Mrs. Hunt hastily. "And besides—I'm awfully sorry—I don't believe the milkman has been yet."

"I could go to the milk-shop round the corner with a jug," said Geoffrey anxiously. "Do let's, Mother."

"Is there one?" Norah asked. "Now, Mrs. Hunt, do rest—make her put her feet up on the sofa, Dad. And Geoff and I will go for milk, and I'll ask Eva to make tea. Can she?"

"Oh, of course she can" said Mrs. Hunt, ceasing to argue the point. "But she's never fit to be seen."

"That doesn't matter," said David Linton masterfully. "We've seen her once, and survived the shock. Just put your feet up, and tell me all about your husband—Norah will see to things."

Eva, however, was found to have risen to the situation. She had used soap and water with surprising effect, and now bloomed in a fresh cap and an apron that had plainly done duty a good many times, but, being turned inside out, still presented a decent front to the world. She scorned help in preparing tea, but graciously permitted Norah to wash the three children and brush their hair, and indicated where clean overalls might be found. Then, escorted by all three, Norah sallied forth, jug in hand, and found, not only the milk-shop, but another where cakes and scones so clamoured to be bought that they all returned laden with paper bags. Eva had made a huge plate of buttered toast; so that the meal which presently made its appearance on the big table in the drawing-room might well have justified the query as to whether indeed a war were in progress.

Mrs. Hunt laughed, rather mirthlessly.

"I suppose I ought to protest—but I'm too tired," she said. "And it is very nice to be taken care of again. Michael, you should have bread-and-butter first."

"Vere isn't any," said Alison with triumph.

Norah was tucking a feeder under Michael's fat chin.

"Now he's my boy for a bit—not yours at all, Mrs. Hunt," she said, laughing. "Forget them all: I'm going to be head nurse." And Mrs. Hunt lay back thankfully, and submitted to be waited on, while the shouts of laughter from the tea-table smoothed away a few more lines from her face, and made even Eva, feasting on unaccustomed cakes in the kitchen, smile grimly and murmur, "Lor, ain't they 'avin' a time!"

Not until tea was over, and the children busy with picture books that had come mysteriously from another of his pockets, did David Linton unfold his plan: and then he did it somewhat nervously.

"We want to take you all out of this, Mrs. Hunt," he said. "There's a little cottage—a jolly little thatched place—close to our house that is simply clamouring to have you all come and live in it. I think it will hold you all comfortably. Will you come?"

Mrs. Hunt flushed.

"Don't talk to poor Bloomsbury people of such heavenly things as thatched cottages," she said. "We have this horrible abode on a long lease, and I don't see any chance of leaving it."

"Oh, never mind the lease—we'll sub-let it for you," said Mr. Linton. He told her briefly of John O'Neill's bequest to Norah.

"I want you to put it out of your head that you're accepting the slightest favour," he went on. "We feel that we only hold the place in trust; the cottage is there, empty, and indeed it is you who will be doing us the favour by coming to live in it."

"Oh—I couldn't," she said breathlessly.

"Just think of it, Mrs. Hunt!" Norah knelt down by the hard little horsehair sofa. "There's a big lawn in front, and a summer-house where the babies could play, and a big empty attic for them on wet days, and heaps of fresh milk, and you could keep chickens; and the sitting-room catches all the sun, and when Major Hunt comes out of the hospital it would be so quiet and peaceful. He could lie out under the trees on fine days on a rush lounge; and there are jolly woods for him to walk in." The poor wife caught her breath. "And he'd be such tremendous company for Dad, and I know you'd help me when I got into difficulties with my cook-lady. There's a little stream, and a tiny lake, and——"

"When is we goin', Muvver?"

The question was Alison's, put with calm certainty. She and Geoffrey had stolen near, and were listening with eager faces.

"Oh, my darling, I'm afraid we can't," said Mrs. Hunt tremulously.

"But the big girl says we can. When is we going?"

"Oh, Mother!" said Geoffrey, very low. "Away from—here!" He caught her hand. "Oh, say we're going, Mother—darling!"

"Of course she'll say it," David Linton said. "The only question is, how soon can you be ready?"

"Douglas is terribly proud," Mrs. Hunt said. "I am afraid I couldn't be proud. But he will never accept a favour. I know it would be no use to ask him."

"Then we won't ask him," said David Linton calmly. "When does he leave the hospital?"

"This day week, if he is well enough."

"Then we'll have you comfortably installed long before that. We won't tell him a thing about it: on the day he's to come out I'll go for him in the motor and whisk him down to Homewood before he realizes where he's going. Now, be sensible, Mrs. Hunt"—as she tried to speak. "You know what his state is—how anxious you are: you told me all about it just now. Can you, in justice to him, refuse to come?—can you face bringing him back here?"

Geoffrey suddenly burst into sobs.

"Oh, don't Mother!" he choked. "You know how he hates it. And—trees, and grass, and woods, and——" He hid his face on her arm.

"An' tsickens," said Alison. "An' ackits to play in."

"You're in a hopeless minority, you see, Mrs. Hunt," said Mr. Linton. "You'll have to give in."

Mrs. Hunt put her arms round the two children who were pressing against her in their eagerness: whereupon Michael raised a wrathful howl and flung himself bodily upon them, ejaculating: "Wants to be hugged, too!" Over the three heads the mother looked up at her visitors.

"Yes, I give in," she said. "I'm not brave enough not to. But I don't know what Douglas will say."

"I'll attend to Douglas," said Mr. Linton cheerfully. "Now, how soon can you come?" He frowned severely. "There's to be no question of house-cleaning here—I'll put in people to do that. You'll have your husband to nurse next week, and I won't have you tiring yourself out beforehand. So you have only to pack."

"Look, Mrs. Hunt," Norah was flushed with another brilliant idea. "Let us take the babies down to-day—I'm sure they will come with me. Then you and Eva will have nothing to do but pack up your things."

"Oh, I couldn't——" Mrs. Hunt began.

"Ah yes, you could." She turned to the children. "Geoff, will you all come with my Daddy and me and get the cottage ready for Mother?"

Geoffrey hesitated.

"Would you come soon, Mother?"

"I—I believe if I had nothing else to do I could leave the flat to-morrow," Mrs. Hunt said, submitting. "Would you all be happy, Geoff?—and very good?"

"Yes, if you'd hurry up and come. You'll be a good kid, Alison, won't you?"

"'Ess," said Alison. "Will I see tsickens?"

"Ever so many," Norah said. "And Michael will be a darling: and we'll all sleep together in one big room, and have pillow-fights!"

"You had certainly better come soon, before your family's manners become ruined, Mrs. Hunt," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "Then you can really manage to get away to-morrow? Very well—I'll call for you about five, if that will do."

"Yes; that will give me time to see Douglas first."

"But you won't tell him anything?"

"Oh, no: he would only worry. Of course, Mr. Linton, I shall be able to get up to see him every day?"

"We're less than an hour by rail," he told her. "And the trains are good. Now I think you had better pack up those youngsters, and I'll get a taxi."

Norah helped to pack the little clothes, trying hard to remember instructions as to food and insistence on good manners.

"Oh, I know you'll spoil them," said Mrs. Hunt resignedly. "Poor mites, they could do with a bit of spoiling: they have had a dreary year. But I think they will be good: they have been away with my sister sometimes, and she gives them a good character."

The children said good-bye to their mother gaily enough: the ride in the motor was sufficient excitement to smooth out any momentary dismay at parting. Only Geoffrey sat up very straight, with his lips tightly pressed together. He leaned from the window—Norah gripping his coat anxiously.

"You'll be true-certain to come to-morrow, Mother?"

"I promise," she said. "Good-bye, old son."

"Mother always keeps her promises, so it's all right," he said, leaning back with a little smile. Alison had no worries. She sang "Hi, diddle, diddle!" loud and clear, as they rushed through the crowded streets. When a block in the traffic came, people on 'buses looked down, smiling involuntarily at the piping voice coming from the recesses of the taxi. As for Michael, he sat on Norah's knee and sucked his thumb in complete content.

Jones met them at the end of the little journey. His lips involuntarily shaped themselves to a whistle of amazement as the party filed out of the station, though to the credit of his training be it recorded that no sound came. Geoffrey caught his breath with delight at the sight of the brown cobs.

"Oh-h! Are they yours?"

"Yes—aren't they dears?" responded Norah.

The boy caught her hand.

"Oh—could I possibly sit in front and look at them?"

Norah laughed.

"Could he, Jones? Would you take care of him?"

"'E'd be as safe as in a cradle, Miss Norah," said Jones delightedly. "Come on up, sir, and I'll show you 'ow to drive." Mr. Linton swung him up, smiling at the transfigured little face. Norah had already got her charges into the carriage: a porter stowed away their trunk, and the horses trotted off through the dusk.

"I didn't ever want to get out," Geoffrey confided to Norah, as they went up the steps to the open door of Homewood. "That kind man let me hold the end of the reins. And he says he'll show me more horses to-morrow."

"There's a pony too—we'll teach you to ride it," said Mr. Linton. Whereat Geoffrey gasped with joy and became speechless.

"Well—have you got them all tucked up?" asked Mr. Linton, when Norah joined him in the morning-room an hour later.

"Oh, yes; they were so tired, poor mites. Bride helped me to bathe them, and we fed them all on bread and milk—with lots of cream. Michael demanded "Mummy," but he was too sleepy to worry much. But; Dad—Geoff wants you badly to say 'good-night.' He says his own Daddy always says it to him when he's in bed. Would you mind?"

"Right," said her father. He went upstairs, with Norah at his heels, and tiptoed into the big room where two of his three small guests were already sleeping soundly. He looked very tall as he stood beside the little bed in the corner. Geoff's bright eyes peeped up at him.

"It was awful good of you to come," he said sleepily. "Daddy does. He says, 'Good night, old chap, and God bless you.'"

"Good night, old chap, and God bless you," said David Linton gravely. He held the small hand a moment in his own, and then, stooping, brushed his forehead with his lips.

"God bless you," said Geoff's drowsy voice. "I'm going—going to ride the pony . . . to-morrow." His words trailed off in sleep.



CHAPTER VII

THE THATCHED COTTAGE

But for the narrow white beds, you would hardly have thought that the big room was a hospital ward. In days before all the world was caught into a whirlpool of war it had been a ballroom. A famous painter had made the vaulted ceiling an exquisite thing of palest blush-roses and laughing Cupids, tumbling among vine-leaves and tendrils. The white walls bore long panels of the same design. There were no fittings for light visible: when darkness fell, the touch of a button flooded the room with a soft glow, coming from some unseen source in the carved cornice. The shining floor bore heavy Persian rugs, and there were tables heaped with books and magazines; and the nurses who flitted in and out were all dainty and good to look at. All about the room were splendid palms in pots; from giants twenty feet high, to lesser ones the graceful leaves of which could just catch the eye of a tired man in bed—fresh from the grim ugliness of the trenches. It was the palms you saw as you came in—not the beds here and there among them.

A good many of the patients were up this afternoon, for this was a ward for semi-convalescents. Not all were fully dressed: they moved about in dressing-gowns, or lay on the sofas, or played games at the little tables. One man was in uniform: Major Hunt, who sat in a big chair near his bed, and from time to time cast impatient glances at the door.

"Wish we weren't going to lose you, Major," said a tall man in a purple dressing-gown, who came up the ward with wonderful swiftness, considering that he was on crutches. "But I expect you're keen to go."

"Oh, yes; though I'll miss this place." Major Hunt cast an appreciative glance down the beautiful room. "It has been great luck to be here; there are not many hospitals like this in England. But—well, even if home is only a beastly little flat in Bloomsbury it is home, and I shall be glad to get back to my wife and the youngsters. I miss the kids horribly."

"Yes, one does," said the other.

"I daresay I'll find them something of a crowd on wet days, when they can't get out," said Major Hunt, laughing. "The flat is small, and my wretched nerves are all on edge. But I want them badly, for all that. And it's rough on my wife to be so much alone. She has led a kind of wandering life since war broke out—sometimes we've been able to have the kids with us, but not always." He stretched himself wearily. "Gad! how glad I'll be when the Boche is hammered and we're able to have a decent home again!"

"We're all like that," said the other man. "I've seen my youngsters twice in the last year."

"Yes, you're worse off than I am," said Major Hunt. He looked impatiently towards the door, fidgeting. "I wish Stella would come."

But when a nurse brought him a summons presently, and he said good-bye to the ward and went eagerly down to the ground-floor (in an electric lift worked by an earl's daughter in a very neat uniform), it was not his wife who awaited him in a little white-and-gold sitting-room, but a very tall man, looking slightly apologetic.

"Your wife is perfectly well," said David Linton, checking the quick inquiry that rose to the soldier's lips. "But I persuaded her to give me the job of calling for you to-day: our car is rather more comfortable than a taxi, and the doctor thought it would be a good thing for you to have a little run first."

Major Hunt tried not to look disappointed, and failed signally.

"It's awfully good of you," he said courteously. "But I don't believe I'm up to much yet—and I'm rather keen on getting home. If you wouldn't mind going there direct."

David Linton cast an appealing look at the nurse, who had accompanied her patient. She rose to the occasion promptly.

"Now, Major Hunt," she protested. "Doctor's orders! You promised to take all the exercise you could, and a run in the car would be the very thing for you."

"Oh, very well." Major Hunt's voice was resigned. David Linton leaned towards him.

"I'll make it as short as I can," he said confidentially. They said good-bye, and emerged into Park Lane, where the big blue motor waited.

"Afraid you must think me horribly rude," said the soldier, as they started. "Fact is, I'm very anxious to see my youngsters: I don't know why, but Stella wouldn't bring them to the hospital to see me this last week. But it's certainly jolly to be out again." He leaned back, enjoying the comfort of the swift car. "I suppose—" he hesitated—"it would be altogether too much trouble to go round by the flat and pick up my wife and Geoff. They would love a run."

"Oh! Ah! The flat—yes, the flat!" said David Linton, a little wildly. "I'm afraid—that is, we should be too early. Mrs. Hunt would not expect us so soon, and she—er—she meant to be out, with all the children. Shopping. Fatted calf for the prodigal's return, don't you know. Awfully sorry."

"Oh, it's quite all right," said Major Hunt, looking rather amazed. "Only she doesn't generally take them all out. But of course it doesn't matter."

"I'll tell you what," said his host, regaining his composure. "We'll take all of you out to-morrow—Mrs. Hunt and the three youngsters as well as yourself. The car will hold all."

Major Hunt thanked him, rather wearily. They sped on, leaving the outskirts of London behind them. Up and down long, suburban roads, beyond the trail of motor-'buses, until the open country gleamed before them. The soldier took a long breath of the sweet air.

"Gad, it's good to see fields again!" he said. Presently he glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"Nearly time to turn, don't you think?" he said. "I don't want Stella to be waiting long."

"Very soon," said Mr. Linton. "Just a little more country air. The chauffeur has his orders: I won't keep you much longer."

He racked his brains anxiously for a moment, and then plunged into a story of Australia—a story in which bushrangers, blacks and bushfires mingled so amazingly that it was impossible not to listen to it. Having once secured his hapless guest's attention, he managed to leave the agony of invention and to slide gracefully to cattle-mustering, about which it was not necessary to invent anything. Major Hunt became interested, and asked a few questions; and they were deep in a comparison of the ways of handling cattle on an Australian run and a Texan ranch, when the car suddenly turned in at a pair of big iron gates and whirled up a drive fringed with trees. Major Hunt broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"Hallo! Where are we going?"

"I have to stop at a house here for an instant," said Mr. Linton. "Just a moment; I won't keep you."

Major Hunt frowned. He was tired; the car was wonderfully comfortable, but the rush through the keen air was wearying to a semi-invalid, and he was conscious of a feeling of suppressed irritation. He wanted to be home. The thought of the hard little sofa in the London flat suddenly became tempting—he could lie there and talk to the children, and watch Stella moving about. Now they were miles into the country—long miles that must be covered again before he was back in Bloomsbury. He bit his lips to restrain words that might not seem courteous.

"I should really be very grateful if——"

He stopped. The car had turned into a side-avenue—he caught a glimpse of a big, many-gabled house away to the right. Then they turned a corner, and the car came to a standstill with her bonnet almost poking into a great clump of rhododendrons. There was a thatched cottage beside them. And round the corner tore a small boy in a sailor suit, with his face alight with a very ecstasy of welcome.

"Daddy! Oh, Daddy!"

"Geoff!" said Major Hunt amazedly. "But how?—I don't understand."

There were other people coming round the corner: his wife, tall and slender, with her eyes shining; behind her, Norah Linton, with Alison trotting beside her, and Michael perched on one shoulder. At sight of his father Michael drummed with his heels to Norah's great discomfort, and uttered shrill squeaks of joy.

"Come on," said Geoffrey breathlessly, tugging at the door. "Come on! they're all here."

"Come on, Hunt," said David Linton, jumping out. "Let me help you—mind your hand."

"I suppose I'll wake up in a moment," said Major Hunt, getting out slowly. "At present, it's a nice dream. I don't understand anything. How are you, Miss Linton?"

"You don't need to wake up," said his wife, in a voice that shook a little. Her brave eyes were misty. "Only, you're home."

"It's the loveliest home, Daddy!" Geoff's hand was in his father's, pulling him on.

"There's tsickens!" said Alison in a high pipe. "An' a ackit wiv toys."

"She means an attic," said Geoffrey scornfully. "Come on, Daddy. We've got such heaps to show you."

Somehow they found themselves indoors. Norah and her father had disappeared; they were all together, father, mother, and babies, in a big room flooded with sunlight: a room covered with a thick red matting with heavy rugs on it; a room with big easy-chairs and gate-legged tables, and a wide couch heaped with bright cushions, drawn close to an open casement. There was a fire of logs, crackling cheerily in the wide fireplace: there were their own belongings—photographs, books, his own pipe-rack and tobacco-jar: there were flowers everywhere, smiling a greeting. Tea-cups and silver sparkled on a white-cloth; a copper kettle bubbled over a spirit-lamp. And there were his own people clinging round him, welcoming, holding him wherever little hands could grasp: the babies fresh, clean, even rosy; his wife's face, no longer tired. And there was no Bloomsbury anywhere.

Major Hunt sat down on the sofa, disentangled Michael from his leg, and lifted him with his good arm.

"It isn't a dream, really, I suppose, Stella?" he said. "I won't wake up presently? I don't want to."

"No; it's just a blessed reality," she told him, smiling. "Hang up Daddy's cap, Geoff: steady, Alison, darling—mind his hand. Don't worry about anything, Douglas—only—you're home."

"I don't even want to ask questions," said her husband, in the same dazed voice. "I find one has no curiosity, when one suddenly gets to heaven. We won't be going away from heaven, though, will we?"

"No—we're permanent residents," she told him, laughing. "Now get quite comfy; we'll all have tea together."

"Tea's is lovely here," confided Alison to him. "They's cweam—an' cakes, evewy day. An' the tsickens make weal eggs, in nesses!"

"And I can ride. A pony, Daddy!" Geoffrey's voice was quivering with pride. He stood by the couch, an erect little figure.

"Why, he's grown—ever so much!" said Major Hunt. "They've all grown; you too, my little fat Michael. I left white-faced babies in that beastly flat. And you too——" She bent over him. "Your dear eyes have forgotten the old War!" he said, very low.

There was a heavy knock at the door. Entered Eva, resplendent in a butterfly cap and an apron so stiffly starched that it stood away resentfully from her figure. By no stretch of imagination could Eva ever have been called shy; but she had a certain amount of awe for her master, and found speech in his presence a little difficult. But on this occasion it was evident that she felt that something was demanded of her. She put her burden of buttered toast on a trivet in the fender, and said breathlessly:

"'Ope I see yer well, sir. And ain't this a nice s'prise!"

"Thank you, Eva—yes," said Major Hunt.

Whereat, the handmaiden withdrew, her heavy tread retreating to the kitchen to the accompaniment of song.

"Ow—Ow—Ow, it's a lovely War!"

"I didn't know her for a moment," Major Hunt said, laughing. "You see, she never had less than six smuts on her face in Bloomsbury. She's transformed, like all of you in this wonderful dream."

"Tea isn't a dream," said his wife. She made it in the silver tea-pot, and they all fluttered about him, persuading him to eat: and made his tea a matter of some difficulty, since all three children insisted on getting as close to him as possible, and he had but one good hand. He did not mind. Once, as his wife brought him a refilled cup, she saw him lean his face down until it rested for a moment on the gold rings of Michael's hair.

It was with some anxiety that Norah and her father went to call on their guest next morning.

"What will we do if he's stiff-necked and proud, Dad?" Norah asked. "I simply couldn't part with those babies now!"

"Let's hope he won't be," said her father. "But if the worst comes to worst, we could let him pay us a little rent for the place—we could give the money to the Red Cross, of course."

"'M!" said Norah, wrinkling her nose expressively. "That would be horrid—it would spoil all the idea of the place."

But they found Major Hunt surprisingly meek.

"I daresay that if you had propounded the idea to me at first I should have said 'No' flatly," he admitted. "But I haven't the heart to disturb them all now—and, frankly, I'm too thankful. If you'll let me pay you rent——"

"Certainly not!" said Mr. Linton, looking astonished and indignant. "We don't run our place on those lines. Just put it out of your head that we have anything to do with it. You're taking nothing from us—only from a man who died very cheerfully because he was able to do five minutes' work towards helping the War. He's helping it still if his money makes it easier for fellows like you; and I believe, wherever he is, he knows and is glad."

"But there are others who may need it more," said Hunt weakly.

"If there are, I haven't met them yet," Mr. Linton responded. He glanced out of the window. "Look there now, Hunt!"

Norah had slipped away, leaving the men to talk. Now she came riding up the broad gravel path across the lawn, on the black pony: leading the fat Welsh pony, with Geoffrey on his back. The small boy sat very straight, with his hands well down. His flushed little face sought anxiously for his father's at the window.

Major Hunt uttered a delighted exclamation.

"I didn't know my urchin was so advanced," he said. "Well done, old son!" He scanned him keenly. "He doesn't sit too badly, Mr. Linton."

"He's not likely to do so, with Norah as his teacher. But Norah says he doesn't need much teaching, and that he has naturally good hands. She's proud of him. I think," said Mr. Linton, laughing, "that they have visions of hunting together this winter!"

"I must go out and see him," said the father, catching up his cap. Mr. Linton watched him cross the lawn with quick strides: and turned, to find Mrs. Hunt at his elbow.

"Well—he doesn't look much like an invalid, Madam!" he said, smiling.

"He's not like the same man," she said, with grateful eyes. "He slept well, and ate a huge breakfast: even the hand is less painful. And he's so cheery. Oh, I'm so thankful to you for kidnapping us!"

"Indeed, it's you that we have to thank," he told her. "You gave us our first chance of beginning our job."



CHAPTER VIII

ASSORTED GUESTS

"I beg your pardon—is this Homewood?"

Norah, practising long putts at a hole on the far side of the terrace, turned with a start. The questioner was in uniform, bearing a captain's three stars. He was a short, strongly-built young man, with a square, determined face.

"Yes, this is Homewood," she answered. "Did you—have you come to see my father?"

"I wrote to him last week," the officer said—"from France. It's Miss Linton, isn't it? I'm in your brother's regiment. My name is Garrett."

"Oh—I've heard Jim speak of you ever so many times," she cried. She put out her hand, and felt it taken in a close grasp. "But we haven't had your letter. Dad would have told me if one had come."

Captain Garrett frowned.

"What a nuisance!" he ejaculated. "Letters from the front are apt to take their time, but I did think a week would have been long enough. I wrote directly I knew my leave was coming. You see—your brother told me——" He stopped awkwardly.

Intelligence suddenly dawned upon Norah.

"Why, you're a Tired Person!" she exclaimed, beaming.

"Not at all, I assure you," replied he, looking a trifle amazed. Norah laughed.

"I don't mean quite that," she said—"at least I'll explain presently. But you have come to stay, haven't you?"

"Well—your brother was good enough to——" He paused again.

"Yes, of course. Jim told you we wanted you to come. This is the Home for Tired People, you see; we want to get as many of you as we can and make you fit. And you're our very first in the house, which will make it horribly dull for you."

"Indeed, it won't," said Garrett gallantly.

"Well, we'll do our best for you. I'm so very sorry you weren't met. Did you leave your luggage at the station?"

"Yes. You're quite sure it's convenient to have me, Miss Linton? I could easily go back to London."

"Good gracious, no!" said Norah. "Why, you're a godsend! We weren't justifying our name. But you will be dull to-day, because Dad has gone to London, and there's only me." Norah's grammar was never her strong point. "And little Geoff Hunt was coming to lunch with me. Will it bore you very much to have a small boy here?"

"Rather not!" said Garrett. "I like them—got some young brothers of my own in Jamaica."

"Well, that's all right. Now come in, and Allenby will show you your room. The car will bring your things up when it goes to meet Dad."

Norah had often rehearsed in her own mind what she would do when the first Tired Person came. The rooms were all ready—"in assorted sizes," Allenby said. Norah had awful visions of eight or ten guests arriving together, and in her own mind characterized the business of allotting them to their rooms as a nasty bit of drafting. But the first guest had tactfully come alone, and there was no doubt that he deserved the blue room—a delightful little corner room looking south and west, with dainty blue hangings and wall-paper, and a big couch that beckoned temptingly to a tired man. Captain Garrett had had fourteen months in France without a break. He had spent the previous night in the leave-train, only pausing in London for a hasty "clean-up." The lavender-scented blue room was like a glimpse of Heaven to him. He did not want to leave it—only that downstairs Jim Linton's sister awaited him, and it appeared that the said sister was a very jolly girl, with a smile like her brother's cheerful grin, and a mop of brown curls framing a decidedly attractive face. Bob Garrett decided that there were better things than even the blue room, and, having thankfully accepted Allenby's offer of a hot tub, presently emerged from the house, much improved in appearance.

This time Norah was not alone. A small boy was with her, who greeted the newcomer with coolness, and then suddenly fell upon him excitedly, recognizing the badge on his collar.

"You're in Daddy's regiment!" he exclaimed.

"Am I?" Garrett smiled at him. "Who is Daddy?"

"He's Major Hunt," said Geoff; and had the satisfaction of seeing the new officer become as eager as he could have wished.

"By Jove! Truly, Miss Linton?—does Major Hunt live here? I'd give something to see him."

"He lives just round the corner of that bush," said Norah, laughing. She indicated a big rhododendron. "Is he at home, Geoff?"

"No—he's gone to London," Geoff answered. "But he'll be back for tea."

"Then we'll go and call on Mrs. Hunt and ask her if we may come to tea," Norah said. They strolled off, Geoff capering about them.

"I don't know Mrs. Hunt," Garrett said. "You see I only joined the regiment when war broke out—I had done a good bit of training, so they gave me a commission among the first. I didn't see such a lot of the Major, for he was doing special work in Ireland for awhile; but he was a regular brick to me. We're all awfully sick about his being smashed up."

"But he's going to get better," Norah said cheerfully. "He's ever so much better now."

They came out in front of the cottage, and discovered Mrs. Hunt playing hide-and-seek with Alison and Michael—with Alison much worried by Michael's complete inattention to anything in the shape of a rule. Michael, indeed, declined to be hid, and played on a steady line of his own, which consisted in toddling after his mother whenever she was in sight, and catching her with shrill squeaks of joy. It was perfectly satisfactory to him, but somewhat harassing to a stickler for detail.

Mrs. Hunt greeted Garrett warmly.

"Douglas has often talked about you—you're from Jamaica, aren't you?" she said. "He will be so delighted that you have come. Yes, of course you must come to tea, Norah. I'd ask you to lunch, only I'm perfectly certain there isn't enough to eat! And Geoff would be so disgusted at being done out of his lunch with you, which makes me think it's not really your society he wants, but the fearful joy of Allenby behind his chair."

"I don't see why you should try to depress me," Norah laughed. "Well, we'll all go for a ride after lunch, and get back in time for tea, if you'll put up with me in a splashed habit—the roads are very muddy. You ride, I suppose, Captain Garrett?"

"Oh, yes, thanks," Garrett answered. "It's the only fun I've had in France since the battalion went back into billets: a benevolent gunner used to lend me a horse—both of us devoutly hoping that I wouldn't be caught riding it."

"Was it a nice horse?" Geoffrey demanded.

"Well, you wouldn't call it perfect, old chap. I think it was suffering from shell-shock: anyhow, it had nerves. It used to shake all over when it saw a Staff-officer!" He grinned. "Or perhaps I did. On duty, that horse was as steady as old Time: but when it was alone, it jumped out of its skin at anything and everything. However, it was great exercise to ride it!"

"We'll give him Killaloe this afternoon, Geoff," said Norah. "Come on, and we'll show him the stables now."

They bade au revoir to Mrs. Hunt and sauntered towards the stables. On the way appeared a form in a print frock, with flying cap and apron-strings.

"Did you want me, Katty?" Norah asked.

"There's a tallygrum after coming, miss, on a bicycle. And the boy's waiting."

Norah knitted her brows over the sheet of flimsy paper.

"There's no answer, Katty, tell the boy." She turned to Garrett, laughing. "You're not going to be our only guest for long. Dad says he's bringing two people down to-night—Colonel and Mrs. West. Isn't it exciting! I'll have to leave you to Geoff while I go and talk to the housekeeper. Geoff, show Captain Garrett all the horses—Jones is at the stables."

"Right!" said Geoffrey, bursting with importance. "Come along, Captain Garrett. I'll let you pat my pony, if you like!"

Mrs. Atkins looked depressed at Norah's information.

"Dear me! And dinner ordered for three!" she said sourly. "It makes a difference. And of course I really had not reckoned on more than you and Mr. Linton."

"I can telephone for anything you want," said Norah meekly.

"The fish will not be sufficient," said the housekeeper. "And other things likewise. I must talk to the cook. It would be so much easier if one knew earlier in the day. And rooms to get ready, of course?"

"The big pink room with the dressing-room," Norah said.

"Oh, I suppose the maids can find time. Those Irish maids have no idea of regular ways: I found Bride helping to catch a fowl this morning when she should have been polishing the floor. Now, I must throw them out of routine again."

Norah suppressed a smile. She had been a spectator of the spirited chase after the truant hen, ending with the appearance of Mrs. Atkins, full of cold wrath; and she had heard Bride's comment afterwards. "Is it her, with her ould routheen? Yerra, that one wouldn't put a hand to a hin, and it eshcapin'!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Atkins. "Extraordinary ways. Very untrained, I must say."

"But you find that they do their work, don't they?" Norah asked.

"Oh, after a fashion," said the housekeeper, with a sniff—unwilling to admit that Bride and Katty got through more work in two hours than Sarah in a morning, were never unwilling, and accepted any and every job with the utmost cheerfulness. "Their ways aren't my ways. Very well, Miss Linton. I'll speak to the cook."

Feeling somewhat battered, Norah escaped. In the hall she met Katty, who jumped—and then broke into a smile of relief.

"I thought 'twas the Ould Thing hersilf," she explained. "She'd ate the face off me if she found me here again—'tis only yesterday she was explaining to me that a kitchenmaid has no business in the hall, at all. But Bridie was tellin' me ye've the grandest ould head of an Irish elk here, and I thought I'd risk her, to get a sight of it."

"It's over there," Norah said, pointing to a mighty pair of horns on the wall behind the girl. Katty looked at it in silence.

"It's quare to think of the days when them great things walked the plains of Ireland," she said at length. "Thank you, miss: it done me good to see it."

"How are you getting on, Katty?" Norah asked.

"Yerra, the best in the world," said Katty cheerfully. "Miss de Lisle's that kind to me—I'll be the great cook some day, if I kape on watchin' her. She's not like the fine English cooks I've heard of, that 'ud no more let you see how they made so much as a pudding than they'd fly over the moon. 'Tis Bridie has the bad luck, to be housemaid."

Norah knew why, and sighed. There were moments when her housekeeper seemed a burden too great to be borne.

"But Mr. Allenby's very pleasant with her, and she says wance you find out that Sarah isn't made of wood she's not so bad. She found that out when she let fly a pillow at her, and they bedmaking," said Katty, with a joyous twinkle. "'Tis herself had great courage to do that same, hadn't she, now, miss?"

"She had, indeed," Norah said, laughing. The spectacle of the stiff Sarah, overwhelmed with a sudden pillow, was indeed staggering.

"And then, haven't we Con to cheer us up if we get lonely?" said Katty. "And Misther Jones and the groom—they're very friendly. And the money we'll have to send home! But you'd be wishful for Ireland, no matter how happy you'd be."

The telephone bell rang sharply, and Norah ran to answer it. It was Jim.

"That you, Nor?" said his deep voice. "Good—I'm in a hurry. I say, can you take in a Tired Person to-night?"

Norah gasped.

"Oh, certainly!" she said, grimly. "Who is it, Jimmy? Not you or Wally?"

"No such luck," said her brother. "It's a chap I met last night; he's just out of a convalescent home, and a bit down on his luck." His voice died away in a complicated jumble of whir and buzz, the bell rang frantically, and Norah, like thousands of other people, murmured her opinion of the telephone and all its works.

"Are you there?" she asked.

"B-z-z-z-z-z!" said the telephone.

Norah waited a little, anxiously debating whether it would be more prudent to ring up herself and demand the last speaker, or to keep quiet and trust to Jim to regain his connexion. Finally, she decided to ring: and was just about to put down the receiver when Jim's voice said, "Are you there?" in her ear sharply, and once more collapsed into a whir. She waited again, in dead silence. At last she rang. Nothing happened, so she rang again.

"Number, please?" said a bored voice.

"Some one was speaking to me—you've cut me off," said Norah frantically.

"I've been trying to get you for the last ten minutes. You shouldn't have rung off," said the voice coldly. "Wait, please."

Norah swallowed her feelings and waited.

"Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!—oh, is that you, Norah?" said Jim, his tone crisp with feeling. "Isn't this an unspeakable machine! And I'm due in three minutes—I must fly. Sure you can have Hardress? He'll get to you by the 6.45. Are you all well? Yes, we're all right. Sorry, I'll get told off horribly if I'm late. Good-bye."

Norah hung up the receiver, and stood pondering. She wished the telephone had not chosen to behave so abominably; only the day before Wally had rung her up and had spent quite half an hour in talking cheerful nonsense, without any hindrance at all. Norah wished she knew a little more about her new "case"; if he were very weak—if special food were needed. It was very provoking. Also, there was Mrs. Atkins to be faced—not a prospect to be put off, since, like taking Gregory's Powder, the more you looked at it the worse it got. Norah stiffened her shoulders and marched off to the housekeeper's room.

"Oh, Mrs. Atkins," she said pleasantly, "there's another officer coming this evening."

Mrs. Atkins turned, cold surprise in her voice.

"Indeed, miss. And will that be all, do you think?"

"I really don't know," said Norah recklessly. "That depends on my father, you see."

"Oh. May I ask which room is to be prepared?"

"The one next Captain Garrett's, please. I can do it, if the maids are too busy."

Mrs. Atkins froze yet more.

"I should very much rather you did not, miss, thank you," she said.

"Just as you like," said Norah. "Con can take a message for anything you want; he is going to the station."

"Thank you, miss, I have already telephoned for larger supplies," said the housekeeper. The conversation seemed to have ended, so Norah departed.

"What did she ever come for?" she asked herself desperately. "If she didn't want to housekeep, why does she go out as a housekeeper?" Turning a corner she met the butler.

"Oh, Allenby," she said. "We'll have quite a houseful to-night!" She told him of the expected arrivals, half expecting to see his face fall. Allenby, on the contrary, beamed.

"It'll be almost like waiting in Mess!" he said. "When you're used to officers, miss, you can't get on very well without them." He looked in a fatherly fashion at Norah's anxious face. "All the arrangements made, I suppose, miss?"

"Oh, yes, I think they're all right," said Norah, feeling anything but confident. "Allenby—I don't know much about managing things; do you think it's too much for the house?"

"No, miss, it isn't," Allenby said firmly. "Just you leave it all to me, and don't worry. Nature made some people bad-tempered, and they can't 'elp it. I'll see that things are all right; and as for dinner, all that worries Miss de Lisle, as a rule, is, that she ain't got enough cooking to do!"

He bent the same fatherly glance on her that evening as she came into the hall when the hoot of the motor told that her father and his consignment of Tired People were arriving. Norah had managed to forget her troubles during the afternoon. A long ride had been followed by a very cheerful tea at Mrs. Hunt's, from which she and Garrett had returned only in time for Norah to slip into a white frock and race downstairs to meet her guests. She hoped, vaguely, that she looked less nervous than she felt.

The hall door opened, letting in a breath of the cold night air.

"Ah, Norah—this is my daughter, Mrs. West," she heard her father's voice; and then she was greeting a stout lady and a grey-haired officer.

"Dear me!" said the lady. "I expected some one grown up. How brave! Fancy you, only—what is it—a flapper! And don't you hate us all very much? I should, I'm sure!"

Over her shoulder Norah caught a glimpse of her father's face, set in grim lines. She checked a sudden wild desire to laugh, and murmured something civil.

"Our hostess, Algernon," said the stout lady, and Norah shook hands with Colonel West, who was short and stout and pompous, and said explosively, "Haw! Delighted! Cold night, what?"—which had the effect of making his hostess absolutely speechless. Somehow with the assistance of Allenby and Sarah, the newcomers were "drafted" to their rooms, and Norah and her father sought cover in the morning-room.