"You look worn, Daddy," said his daughter, regarding him critically.

"I feel it," said David Linton. He sank into an armchair and felt hurriedly for his pipe. "Haven't had a chance of a smoke for hours. They're a little trying, I think, Norah."

"Where did you get them?" Norah asked, perching on the arm of his chair, and dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

"From the hospital where the boys were. Colonel West has been ill there. Brain-fever, Mrs. West says, but he doesn't look like it. Anyhow, they're hard up, I believe; their home is broken up and they have five or six children at school, and a boy in Gallipoli. They seemed very glad to come."

"Well, that's all right," said Norah practically. "We can't expect to have every one as nice as the Hunts. But they're not the only ones, Dad: Captain Garrett is here, and Jim is sending some one called Hardress by the 6.45—unfortunately the telephone didn't allow Jim to mention what he is! I hope he isn't a brigadier."

"I don't see Jim hob-nobbing to any extent with brigadiers," said her father. "I say, this is rather a shock. Four in a day!"

"Yes, business is looking up," said Norah, laughing. "Captain Garrett is a dear—and he can ride, Dad. I had him out on Killaloe. I'm a little uneasy about the Hardress person, because he's just out of a convalescent home, and Jim seemed worried about him. But the telephone went mad, and Jim was in a hurry, so I didn't get any details."

"Oh, well, we'll look after him. How is the household staff standing the invasion?"

"Every one's very happy except Mrs. Atkins, and she is plunged in woe. Even Sarah seems interested. I haven't dared to look at Miss de Lisle, but Allenby says she is cheerful."

"Has Mrs. Atkins been unpleasant?"

"Well," said Norah, and laughed, "you wouldn't call her exactly a bright spot in the house. But she has seen to things, so that is all that counts."

"I won't have that woman worry you," said Mr. Linton firmly.

"I won't have you worried about anything," said Norah. "Don't think about Mrs. Atkins, or you won't enjoy your tea. And here's Allenby."

"Tea!" said Mr. Linton, as the butler entered, bearing a little tray. "I thought I was too late for such a luxury—but I must say I'm glad of it."

"I sent some upstairs, sir," said Allenby, placing a little table near his master. "Just a little toast, sir, it being so late. And if you please, miss, Miss de Lisle would be glad if you could spare a moment in the kitchen."

The cook-lady, redder than ever, was mixing a mysterious compound in a bowl. Katty, hugely important, darted hither and thither. A variety of savoury smells filled the air.

"I just wanted to tell you," said Miss de Lisle confidentially, "that I'm making a special souffle of my own, and Allenby will put it in front of you. Promise me"—she leaned forward earnestly—"to use a thin spoon to help it, and slide it in edgeways as gently as—as if you were stroking a baby! It's just a perfect thing—I wouldn't sleep to-night if you used a heavy spoon and plunged it in as if it was a suet-pudding!"

"I won't forget," Norah promised her, resisting a wild desire to laugh.

"That's a dear," said the cook-lady, disregarding the relations of employer and employed, in the heat of professional enthusiasm. "And you'll help it as quickly as possible, won't you? It will be put on the table after all the other sweets. Every second will be of importance!" She sighed. "A souffle never gets a fair chance. It ought, of course, to be put on a table beside the kitchen-range, and cut within two seconds of leaving the oven. With a hot spoon!" She sighed tragically.

"We'll do our best for it," Norah promised her. "I'm sure it will be lovely. Shall I come and tell you how it looked, afterwards?"

Miss de Lisle beamed.

"Now, that would be very kind of you," she said. "It's so seldom that any one realizes what these things mean to the cook. A souffle like this is an inspiration—like a sonata to a musician. But no one ever dreams of the cook; and the most you can expect from a butler is, 'Oh, it cut very nice, ma'am, I'm sure. Very nice!'" She made a despairing gesture. "But some people would call Chopin 'very nice'!"

"Miss de Lisle," said Norah earnestly, "some day when we haven't any guests and Dad goes to London, we'll give every one else a holiday and you and I will have lunch here together. And we'll have that souffle, and eat it beside the range!"

For a moment Miss de Lisle had no words.

"Well!" she said at length explosively. "And I was so horrible to you at first!" To Norah's amazement and dismay a large tear trickled down one cheek, and her mouth quivered like a child's. "Dear me, how foolish I am," said the poor cook-lady, rubbing her face with her overall, and thereby streaking it most curiously with flour. "Thank you very much, my dear. Even if we never manage it, I won't forget that you said it!"

Norah found herself patting the stalwart shoulder.

"Indeed, we'll manage it," she said. "Now, don't you worry about anything but that lovely souffle."

"Oh, the souffle is assured now," said Miss de Lisle, beating her mixture scientifically. "Now I shall have beautiful thoughts to put into it! You have no idea what that means. Now, if I sat here mixing, and thought of, say, Mrs. Atkins, it would probably be as heavy as lead!" She sighed. "I believe, Miss Linton, I could teach you something of the real poetry of cooking. I'm sure you have the right sort of soul!"

Norah looked embarrassed.

"Jim says I've no soul beyond mustering cattle," she said, laughing. "We'll prove him wrong, some day, Miss de Lisle, shall we? Now I must go: the motor will be back presently." She turned, suddenly conscious of a baleful glance.

"Oh!—Mrs. Atkins!" she said feebly.

"I came," said Mrs. Atkins stonily, "to see if any help was needed in the kitchen. Perhaps, as you are here, miss, you would be so good as to ask the cook?"

"Oh—nothing, thank you," said Miss de Lisle airily, over her shoulder. Mrs. Atkins sniffed, and withdrew.

"That's done it, hasn't it?" said the cook-lady. "Well, don't worry, my dear; I'll see you through anything."

A white-capped head peeped in.

"'Tis yersilf has all the luck of the place, Katty O'Gorman!" said Bride enviously. "An' that Sarah won't give me so much as a look-in, above: if it was to turn down the beds, itself, it's as much as she'll do to let me. Could I give you a hand here at all, Miss de Lisle? God help us, there's Miss Norah!"

"If 'tis the way you'd but let her baste the turkey for a minyit, she'd go upstairs reshted in hersilf," said Katty in a loud whisper. "The creature's destroyed with bein' out of all the fun."

"Oh, come in—if you're not afraid of Mrs. Atkins," said Miss de Lisle. Norah had a vision of Bride, ecstatically grasping a basting-ladle, as she made her own escape.

Allenby was just shutting the hall-door as she turned the corner. A tall man in a big military greatcoat was shaking hands with her father.

"Here's Captain Hardress, Norah."

Norah found herself looking up into a face that at the first glance she thought one of the ugliest she had ever seen. Then the newcomer smiled, and suddenly the ugliness seemed to vanish.

"It's too bad to take you by storm this way. But your brother wouldn't hear of anything else."

"Of course not," said Mr. Linton. "My daughter was rather afraid you might be a brigadier. She loses her nerve at the idea of pouring tea for anything above a colonel."

"Indeed, a colonel's bad enough," said Norah ruefully. "I'm accustomed to people with one or two stars: even three are rather alarming!" She shot a glance at his shoulder, laughing.

"I'm sure you're not half as alarmed as I was at coming," said Captain Hardress. "I've been so long in hospital that I've almost forgotten how to speak to any one except doctors and nurses." His face, that lit up so completely when he smiled, relapsed into gloom.

"Well, you mustn't stand here," Norah said. "Please tell me if you'd like dinner in your room, or if you'd rather come down." She had a sudden vision of Mrs. West's shrill voice, and decided that she might be tiring to this man with the gaunt, sad face.

Hardress hesitated.

"I think you'd better stay upstairs," said David Linton. "Just for to-night—till you feel rested. I'll come and smoke a pipe with you after dinner, if I may."

"I should like that awfully," said Hardress. "Well, if you're sure it would not be too much trouble, Miss Linton——?"

"It's not a scrap of trouble," she said. "Allenby will show you the way. See that Captain Hardress has a good fire, Allenby—and take some papers and magazines up." She looked sadly after the tall figure as it limped away. He was not much older than Jim, but his face held a world of bitter experience.

"You mustn't let the Tired People make you unhappy, mate," said her father. He put his arm round her as they went into the drawing-room to await their guests. "Remember, they wouldn't be here if they didn't need help of some sort."

"I won't be stupid," said Norah. "But he has such a sorry face, Dad, when he doesn't smile."

"Then our job is to keep him smiling," said David Linton practically.

There came a high-pitched voice in the hall, and Mrs. West swept in, her husband following at her heels. To Norah's inexperienced eyes, she was more gorgeous than the Queen of Sheba, in a dress of sequins that glittered and flashed with every movement. Sarah, who had assisted in her toilette, reported to the kitchen that she didn't take much stock in a dress that was moulting its sequins for all the world like an old hen; but Norah saw no deficiencies, and was greatly impressed by her guest's magnificence. She was also rather overcome by her eloquence, which had the effect of making her feel speechless. Not that that greatly mattered, as Mrs. West never noticed whether any one else happened to speak or remain silent, so long as they did not happen to drown her own voice.

"Such a lovely room!" she twittered. "So comfortable. And I feel sure there is an exquisite view. And a fire in one's bedroom—in war-time! Dear me, I feel I ought to protest, only I haven't sufficient moral courage; and those pine logs are too delicious. Perhaps you are burning your own timber?—ah, I thought so. That makes it easier for me to refrain from prodding up my moral courage—ha, ha!"

Norah hunted for a reply, and failed to find one.

"And you are actually Australians!" Mrs. West ran on. "So interesting! I always do think that Australians are so original—so quaintly original. It must be the wild life you lead. So unlike dear, quiet little England. Bushrangers, and savage natives, and gold-mining. How I should like to see it all!"

"Oh, you would find other attractions as well, Mrs. West," Mr. Linton told her. "The 'wild life in savage places' phase of Australian history is rather a back number."

"Oh, quite—quite," agreed his guest. "We stay-at-homes know so little of the other side of the world. But we are not aloof—not uninterested. We recognize the fascination of it all. The glamour—yes, the glamour. Gordon's poems bring it all before one, do they not? Such a true Australian! You must be very proud of him."

"We are—but he wasn't an Australian," said Mr. Linton. The lady sailed on, unheeding.

"Yes. The voice of the native-born. And your splendid soldiers, too!—I assure you I thrill whenever I meet one of the dear fellows in the street in London. So tall and stern under their great slouch-hats. Outposts of Empire, that is what I say to myself. Outposts here, in the heart of our dear little Surrey! Linking the ends of the earth, as it were. The strangeness of it all!"

Garrett, who had made an unobtrusive entrance some little time before, and had been enjoying himself hugely in the background, now came up to the group on the hearthrug and was duly introduced.

"Lately from France, did you say?" asked Mrs. West. "Yesterday! Fancy! Like coming from one world into another, is it not, Captain Garrett? To be only yesterday 'mid the thunder of shot and shell out yonder; and to-night in——"

"In dear little Surrey," said Garrett innocently.

"Quite. Such a peaceful county—war seems so remote. You must tell me some of your experiences to-morrow."

"Oh, I never have any," said Garrett hastily.

"Now, now!" She shook a playful forefinger at him. "I was a mother to my husband's regiment, Captain Garrett, I assure you. Quite. I used to say to all our subalterns, 'Now, remember that this house is open to you at any time.' I felt that they were so far from their own homes. 'Bring your troubles to me,' I would say, 'and let us straighten them out together.'"

"And did they?" Garrett asked.

"They understood me. They knew I wanted to help them. And my husband encouraged them to come."

"Takes some encouragin', the subaltern of the present day, unless it's to tennis and two-step," said Colonel West.

"But such dear boys! I felt their mothers would have been so glad. And our regiment had quite a name for nice subalterns. There is something so delightful about a subaltern—so care-free."

"By Jove, yes!" said Colonel West. "Doesn't care for anything on earth—not even the adjutant!"

"Now, Algernon——" But at that moment dinner was announced, and the rest of the sentence was lost—which was an unusual fate for any remark of Mrs. West's.

It was Norah's first experience as hostess at her father's dinner-table—since, in this connexion, Billabong did not seem to count. No one could ever have been nervous at Billabong. Besides, there was no butler there: here, Allenby, gravely irreproachable, with Sarah and Bride as attendant sprites, seemed to intensify the solemnity of everything. However, no one seemed to notice anything unusual, and conversation flowed apace. Colonel West did not want to talk: such cooking as Miss de Lisle's appeared to him to deserve the compliment of silence, and he ate in an abstraction that left Garrett free to talk to Norah; while Mrs. West overwhelmed Mr. Linton with a steady flow of eloquence that began with the soup and lasted until dessert. Then Norah and Mrs. West withdrew leaving the men to smoke.

"My dear, your cook's a poem," said Mrs. West, as they returned to the drawing-room. "Such a dinner! That souffle—well, words fail me!"

"I'm so glad you liked it," Norah said.

"It melted in the mouth. And I watched you help it; your face was so anxious—you insinuated the spoon with such an expression—I couldn't describe it——"

Norah burst out laughing.

"I could," she said. "The cook was so anxious about that souffle, and she said to do it justice it should be helped with a hot spoon. So I told Allenby to stand the spoon in a jug of boiling water, and give it to me at the very last moment. He was holding it in the napkin he had for drying it, I suppose, and he didn't know that the handle was nearly red-hot. But I did, when I took it up!"

"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. West. "So your expression was due to agony!"

"Something like it," Norah laughed. "It was just all I could do to hold it. But the souffle was worth it, wasn't it? I must tell Miss de Lisle."

"Miss de Lisle? Your cook?"

"Yes—it sounds well, doesn't it?" said Norah. "She's a dear, too."

"She is certainly a treasure," said Mrs. West. "Since the regiment went out I have been living in horrible boarding-houses, where they half-starve you, and what they do give you to eat is so murdered in the cooking that you can hardly swallow it. Economical for the management, but not very good for the guests. But one must take things as they come, in this horrible war." She paused, the forced smile fading from her lips. Somehow Norah felt that she was sorry for her: she looked suddenly old, and worn and tired.

"Come and sit in this big chair, Mrs. West," she said. "You must have had a long day."

"Well, quite," said Mrs. West. "You see, I went to take my husband from the hospital at twelve o'clock, and then I found that your father had made this delightful arrangement for us. It seemed too good to be true. So I had to send Algernon to his club, and I rushed back to my boarding-house and packed my things: and then I had to do some shopping, and meet them at the station. And of course I never could get a taxi when I wanted one. I really think I am a little tired. This seems the kind of house where it doesn't matter to admit it."

"Of course not—isn't it a Home for Tired People?" Norah laughed. Sarah entered with coffee, and she fussed gently about her guest, settling her cushions and bringing her cup to her side with cream and sugar.

"It's very delightful to be taken care of," said Mrs. West, with a sigh. The affected, jerky manner dropped from her, and she became more natural. "My children are all boys: I often have been sorry that one was not a girl. A daughter must be a great comfort. Have you any sisters, my dear?"

"No. Just one brother—he's in Captain Garrett's regiment."

"And you will go back to Australia after the war?"

"Oh, yes. We couldn't possibly stay away from Australia," Norah said, wide-eyed. "You see, it's home."

"And England has not made you care any less for it?"

"Goodness, no!" Norah said warmly. "It's all very well in its way, but it simply can't hold a candle to Australia!"

"But why?"

Norah hesitated.

"It's a bit hard to say," she answered at length. "Life is more comfortable here, in some ways: more luxuries and conveniences of living, I mean. And England is beautiful, and it's full of history, and we all love it for that. But it isn't our own country. The people are different—more reserved, and stiffer. But it isn't even that. I don't know," said Norah, getting tangled—"I think it's the air, and the space, and the freedom that we're used to, and we miss them all the time. And the jolly country life——"

"But English country life is jolly."

"I think we'd get tired of it," said Norah. "It seems to us all play: and in Australia, we work. Even if you go out for a ride there, most likely there is a job hanging to it—to bring in cattle, or count them, or see that a fence is all right, or to bring home the mail. Every one is busy, and the life all round is interesting. I don't think I explain at all well; I expect the real explanation is just that the love for one's own country is in one's bones!"

"Quite!" said Mrs. West. "Quite!" But she said the ridiculous word as though for once she understood, and there was a comfortable little silence between them for a few minutes. Then the men came in, and the evening went by quickly enough with games and music. Captain Garrett proved to be the possessor of a very fair tenor, together with a knack of vamping not unmelodious accompaniments. The cheery songs floated out into the hall, where Bride and Katty crouched behind a screen, torn between delight and nervousness.

"If the Ould Thing was to come she'd have the hair torn off of us," breathed Katty. "But 'tis worth the rishk. Blessed Hour, haven't he the lovely voice?"

"He have—but I'd rather listen to Miss Norah," said Bride loyally. "'Tisn't the big voice she do be having, but it's that happy-sounding."

It was after ten o'clock when Norah, having said good-night to her guests and shown Mrs. West to her room, went softly along the corridor. A light showed under Miss de Lisle's doorway, and she tapped gently.

The door opened, revealing the cook-lady's comfortable little sitting-room, with a fire burning merrily in the grate. The cook-lady herself was an extraordinarily altered being, in a pale-blue kimono with heavy white embroidery.

"I hoped you would come," she said. "Are you tired? Poor child, what an evening! I wonder would you have a cup of cocoa with me here? I have it ready."

She waved a large hand towards a fat brown jug standing on a trivet by the grate. There was a tray on a little table, bearing cups and saucers and a spongecake. Norah gave way promptly.

"I'd love it," she said. "How good of you. I was much too excited to eat dinner. But the souffle was just perfect, Miss de Lisle. I never saw anything like it. Mrs. West raved about it after dinner."

"I am glad," said the cook-lady, with the rapt expression of a high-priestess. "Allenby told me how you arranged for a hot spoon. It was beautiful of you: beautiful!"

"Did he tell you how hot it was?" Norah inquired. They grew merry over the story, and the spongecake dwindled simultaneously with the cocoa in the jug.

"I must go," Norah said at last. "It's been so nice: thank you ever so, Miss de Lisle."

"It's I who should thank you for staying," said the big woman, rising. "Will you come again, some time?"

"Rather! if I may. Good-night." She shut the door softly, and scurried along to her room—unconscious that another doorway was a couple of inches ajar, and that through the space Mrs. Atkins regarded her balefully.

Her father's door was half-open, and the room was lit. Norah knocked.

"Come in," said Mr. Linton. "You, you bad child! I thought you were in bed long ago."

"I'm going now," Norah said. "How did things go off, Daddy?"

"Quite well," he said. "And my daughter made a good hostess. I think they all enjoyed themselves, Norah."

"I think so," said she. "They seemed happy enough. What about Captain Hardress, Dad?"

"He seemed comfortable," Mr. Linton answered. "I found him on a couch, with a rug over him, reading. Allenby said he ate a fair dinner. He's a nice fellow, Norah; I like him."

"Was he badly wounded, Dad?"

"He didn't say much about himself. I gathered that he had been a long while in hospital. But I'm sorry for him, Norah; he seems very down on his luck."

"Jim said so," remarked Norah. "Well, we must try to buck him up. I suppose Allenby will look after him, Dad, if he needs anything?"

"I told him to," said Mr. Linton, with a grin. "He looked at me coldly, and said, 'I 'ope, sir, I know my duty to a wounded officer.' I believe I found myself apologizing. There are times when Allenby quite fails to hide his opinion of a mere civilian: I see myself sinking lower and lower in his eyes as we fill this place up with khaki: Good-night, Norah."



CHAPTER IX

HOMEWOOD GETS BUSY

"Good morning, Captain Hardress."

Hardress turned. He was standing in the porch, looking out over the park towards the yellowing woods.

"Good morning, Miss Linton. I hope you'll forgive me for being so lazy as to stay in bed for breakfast. You'll have to blame your butler: he simply didn't call me. The first thing I knew was an enormous tray with enough breakfast for six men—and Allenby grinning behind it."

"You stay in bed to breakfast here, or get up, just as you feel inclined," Norah said. "There aren't any rules except two."

"Isn't that a bit Irish?"

"Not exactly, because Jim says even those two may be broken. But I don't agree to that—at least, not for Rule 2."

"Do tell me them," he begged.

"Rule 1 is, 'Bed at ten o'clock.' That's the one that may be broken when necessary. Rule 2 is, 'Please do just what you feel like doing.' That's the one I won't have broken—unless any one wants to do things that aren't good for them. Then I shall remember that they are patients, and become severe."

"But I'm not a patient."

"No—but you're tired. You've got to get quite fit. What would you like to do? Would you care to come for a ride?"

Hardress flushed darkly.

"Afraid I can't ride."

"Oh—I'm sorry," said Norah, looking at him in astonishment. This lean, active-looking fellow with the nervous hands certainly looked as though he should be able to ride. Indeed, there were no men in Norah's world who could not. But, perhaps——

"What about a walk, then?" she inquired. "Do you feel up to it?"

Again Hardress flushed.

"I thought your brother would have explained," he said heavily. "I can't do anything much, Miss Linton. You see, I've only one leg."

Norah's grey eyes were wide with distress.

"I didn't know," she faltered. "The telephone was out of order—Jim couldn't explain. I'm so terribly sorry—you must have thought me stupid."

"Not a bit—after all, it's rather a compliment to the shop-made article. I was afraid it was evident enough."

"Indeed it isn't," Norah assured him. "I knew you limped a little—but it wasn't very noticeable."

"It's supposed to be a special one," Hardress said. "I'm hardly used to it yet, though, and it feels awkward enough. They've been experimenting with it for some time, and now I'm a sort of trial case for that brand of leg. The maker swears I'll be able to dance with it: he's a hopeful soul. I'm not."

"You ought to try to be," Norah said. "And it really must be a very good one." She felt a kind of horror at talking of it in this cold-blooded fashion.

"I think most of the hopefulness was knocked out of me," Hardress answered. "You see, I wanted to save the old leg, and they tried to: and then it was a case of one operation after another, until at last they took it off—near the hip."

Norah went white.

"Near the hip!" Her voice shook. "Oh, it couldn't be—you're so big and strong!"

Hardress laughed grimly.

"I used to think it couldn't be, myself," he said. "Well, I suppose one will get accustomed to it in time. I'm sorry I distressed you, Miss Linton—only I thought I had better make a clean breast of it."

"I'm glad you did." Norah had found control of her voice and her wits: she remembered that this maimed lad with the set face was there to be helped, and that it was part of her job to do it. Her very soul was wrung with pity, but she forced a smile.

"Now you have just got to let us help," she said. "We can't try to make forget it, I know, but we can help to make the best of it. You can practise using it in all sorts of ways, and seeing just what you can do with it. And, Captain Hardress, I know they do wonders now with artificial legs: Dad knew of a man who played tennis with his—as bad a case as yours."

"That certainly seems too good to be true," said Hardress.

"I don't know about that," said Norah eagerly. "Your leg must be very good—none of us guessed the truth about it. When you get used to it, you'll be able to manage all sorts of things. Golf, for instance—there's a jolly little nine-hole course in the park, and I know you could play."

"I had thought golf might be a possibility," he said. "Not that I ever cared much for it. My two games were polo and Rugby football."

"I don't know about Rugby," said Norah thoughtfully. "But of course you'll play polo again. Some one was writing in one of the papers lately, saying that so many men had lost a leg in the war that the makers would have to invent special riding-legs, for hunting and polo. I know very well that if Jim came home without a leg he'd still go mustering cattle, or know the reason why! And there was the case of an Irishman, a while ago, who had no legs at all—and he used to hunt."

"By Jove!" said Hardress. "Well, you cheer a fellow up, Miss Linton."

"You see, I have Jim and Wally," said Norah. "Do you know Wally, by the way?"

"Is that Meadows?—oh yes, I met him with your brother."

"Well, he's just like my brother—he nearly lives with us. And from the time that they joined up we had to think of the chance of their losing a limb. Jim never says anything about it, but I know Wally dreads it. Dad and I found out all we could about artificial limbs, and what can be done with them, so that we could help the boys if they had bad luck. They are all right, so far, but of course there is always the chance."

Hardress nodded.

"We planned that if bad luck came we would try to get them to do as much as possible. Of course an arm is worse: to lose a leg is bad enough, goodness knows—but it's better than an arm."

"That's one of the problems I've been studying," Hardress said grimly.

"Oh, but it is. And with you—why, in a few years no one will ever guess that you have anything wrong. It's luck in one way, because a leg doesn't make you conspicuous, and an arm does."

"That's true," he said energetically. "I have hoped desperately that I'd be able to hide it; I just couldn't stick the idea of people looking at me."

"Well, they won't," said Norah. "And the more you can carry on as usual, the less bad it will seem. Now, let's plan what you can tackle first. Can you walk much?"

"Not much. I get tired after about fifty yards."

"Well, we'll do fifty yards whenever you feel like it, and then we'll sit down and talk until you can go on again." She hesitated. "You—it doesn't trouble you to sit down?"

"Oh, no!" said Hardress, laughing for the first time. "It's an awfully docile leg!"

"Then, can you drive? There's the motor, and a roomy tub-cart, and the carriage."

"Yes—I can drive."

"Oh, I say!" cried Norah inelegantly, struck by a brilliant idea. "Can you drive a motor?"

"No, I can't! I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Con will teach you—it will give you quite a new interest. Would you like to learn?"

"By Jove, I would," he said eagerly. "You're sure your father won't mind my risking his car?"

"Dad would laugh at such a foolish question," said Norah. "We'll go and see Con now—shall we? it's not far to the stables. You might have a lesson at once."

"Rather!" he said boyishly. "I say, Miss Linton, you are a brick!"

"Now about golf," Norah said, as they moved slowly away, Hardress leaning heavily on his stick. "Will you try to play a little with me? We could begin at the practice-holes beyond the terrace."

"Yes, I'd like to," he said.

"And billiards? We'll wait for a wet day, because I want you to live in the open air as much as possible. I can't play decently, but Captain Garrett is staying here, and Jim and Wally come over pretty often."

"You might let me teach you to play," he suggested. "Would you care to?"

"Oh, I'd love it," said Norah, beaming. The beam, had he known it, was one of delight at the new ring in her patient's voice. Life had come back to it: he held his head erect, and his eyes were no longer hopeless.

"And riding?" she hesitated.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't believe I could even get on."

"There's a steady old pony," Norah said. "Why not practise on him? He stands like a rock. I won't stay and look at you, but Con could—you see he's lost a leg himself, so you wouldn't mind him. I'm sure you'll find you can manage—and when you get confidence we'll go out together."

"Well, you would put hope into—into a dead codfish!" he said. "Great Scott, if I thought I could get on a horse again!"

Norah laughed.

"We're all horse-mad," she said. "If I were—like you, I know that to ride would be the thing that would help me most. So you have just got to." They had arrived at the stables, where Con had the car out and was lovingly polishing its bonnet.

"Con, can you teach Captain Hardress to drive?"

"Is it the car?" asked Con. "And why not, miss?"

"Can I manage it, do you think?" asked Hardress. "I've only one leg."

"'Tis as many as I have meself," returned Con cheerfully. "And I'm not that bad a driver, am I, Miss Norah?"

"You're not," Norah answered. "Now I'll leave you to Con, Captain Hardress: I suppose you'll learn all about the car before you begin to drive her. Con can run you round to the house afterwards, if you're tired. The horses are in the stables, too, if you'd care to look at them."

"Jones have the brown pair out, miss," said Con. "But the others are all here."

"Well, you can show them to Captain Hardress, Con. I want him to begin riding Brecon."

She smiled at Hardress, and ran off, looking back just before the shrubberies hid the stable-yard. Hardress was peering into the bonnet of the car, with Con evidently explaining its inner mysteries; just as she looked, he straightened up, and threw off his coat with a quick gesture.

"He's all right," said Norah happily. She hurried on.

The Tired People were off her hands for the morning. Colonel and Mrs. West had gone for a drive; Captain Garrett was playing golf with Major Hunt, who was developing rapidly in playing a one-armed game, and was extremely interested in his own progress. It was the day for posting to Australia, and there was a long letter to Brownie to be finished, and one to Jean Yorke, her chum in Melbourne. Already it was late; in the study, her father had been deep in his letters for over an hour.

But as she came up to the porch she saw him in the hall.

"Oh—Norah," he said with relief. "I've been looking for you. Here's a letter from Harry Trevor, of all people!"

"Harry!" said Norah delightedly. "Oh, I'm so glad! Where is he, Dad?"

"He's in London—this letter has been wandering round after us. We ought to have had it days ago. Harry has a commission now—got it on the field, in Gallipoli, more power to him: and he's been wounded and sent to England. But he says he's all right."

"Oh, won't Jim and Wally be glad!" Harry Trevor was an old school-fellow whom Fate had taken to Western Australia; it was years since they had met.

"He has two other fellows with him, he says; and he doesn't know any one in London, nor do they. His one idea seems to be to see us. What are we to do, Norah? Can we have them here?"

"Why we must have them," Norah said. She made a swift mental calculation. "Yes—we can manage it."

"You're sure," asked her father, evidently relieved. "I was afraid it might be too much for the house; and I would be very sorry to put them off."

"Put off Australians, even if one of them wasn't Harry!" ejaculated Norah. "We couldn't do it! How will you get them, Dad?"

"I'll telephone to their hotel at once," said her father. "Shall I tell them to come to-day?"

"Oh, yes. You can arrange the train, Dad. Now I'll go and see Mrs. Atkins."

"'Tis yourself has great courage entirely," said her father, looking at her respectfully. "I'd rather tackle a wild buffalo!"

"I'm not sure that I wouldn't," returned Norah. "However, she's all the buffalo I've got, so I may as well get it over." She turned as she reached the door. "Tell old Harry how glad we are, Dad. And don't you think you ought to let Jim know?"

"Yes—I'll ring him up too." And off went Norah, singing. Three Australians—in "dear little Surrey!" It was almost too good to be true.

But Mrs. Atkins did not think so. She was sorting linen, with a sour face, when Norah entered her sanctum and made known her news. The housekeeper remained silent for a moment.

"Well, I don't see how we're to manage, miss," she said at length. "The house is pretty full as it is."

"There is the big room with two single beds," Norah said. "We can put a third bed in. They won't mind being together."

Mrs. Atkins sniffed.

"It isn't usual to crowd people like that, miss."

"It won't matter in this case," said Norah.

"Did you say Australians, miss?" asked the housekeeper. "Officers?"

"One is an officer."

"And the others, miss?"

"I don't know—privates, very possibly," said Norah. "It doesn't matter."

"Not matter! Well, upon my word!" ejaculated Mrs. Atkins. "Well, all I can say, miss, is that it's very funny. And how do you think the maids are going to do all that extra work?"

Norah began to experience a curious feeling of tingling.

"I am quite sure the maids can manage it," she said, commanding her voice with an effort. "For one thing, I can easily help more than I do now."

"We're not accustomed in this country to young ladies doing that sort of thing," said Mrs. Atkins. Her evil temper mastered her. "And your pet cook, the fine lady who's too grand to sit with me——"

Norah found her voice suddenly calm.

"You mustn't speak to me like that, Mrs. Atkins," she said, marvelling at her own courage. "You will have to go away if you can't behave properly."

Mrs. Atkins choked.

"Go away!" she said thickly. "Yes, I'll go away. I'm not going to stay in a house like this, that's no more and no less than a boarding-house! You and your friend the cook can——"

"Be quiet, woman!" said a voice of thunder. Norah, who had shrunk back before the angry housekeeper, felt a throb of relief as Allenby strode into the room. At the moment there was nothing of the butler about him—he was Sergeant Allenby, and Mrs. Atkins was simply a refractory private.

"I won't be quiet!" screamed the housekeeper. "I——"

"You will do as you're told," said Allenby, dropping a heavy hand on her shoulder. "That's enough, now: not another word. Now go to your room. Out of 'ere, or I'll send for the police."

Something in the hard, quiet voice filled Mrs. Atkins with terror. She cast a bitter look at Norah, and then slunk out of the room. Allenby closed the door behind her.

"I'm very sorry, miss," he said—butler once more. "I hope she didn't frighten you."

"Oh, no—only she was rather horrible," said Norah. "Whatever is the matter with her, Allenby? I hadn't said anything to make her so idiotic."

"I've been suspecting what was the matter these last three days," said Allenby darkly. "Look 'ere, miss." He opened a cupboard, disclosing rows of empty bottles. "I found these 'ere this morning when she was in the kitchen: I'd been missing bottles from the cellar. She must have another key to the cellar-door, 'owever she managed it."

There came a tap at the door, and Mr. Linton came in—to have the situation briefly explained to him.

"I wouldn't have had it happen for something," he said angrily. "My poor little girl, I didn't think we were letting you in for this sort of thing."

"Why, you couldn't help it," Norah said. "And she didn't hurt me—she was only unpleasant. But I think we had better keep her out of Miss de Lisle's way, or she might be hard to handle."

"That's so, miss," said Allenby. "I'll go and see. 'Ard to 'andle! I should think so!"

"See that she packs her box, Allenby," said Mr. Linton. "I'll write her cheque at once, and Con can take her to the station as soon as she is ready. She's not too bad to travel, I suppose?"

"She's not bad at all, sir. Only enough to make her nasty."

"Well, she can go and be nasty somewhere else," said Mr. Linton. "Very well, Allenby." He turned to Norah, looking unhappy. "Whatever will you do, my girl?—and this houseful of people! I'd better telephone Harry and put his party off."

"Indeed you won't," said Norah, very cheerfully. "I'll manage, Dad. Don't you worry. I'm going to talk to Miss de Lisle."

The cook-lady was not in the kitchen. Katty, washing vegetables diligently, referred Norah to her sitting-room, and there she was found, knitting a long khaki muffler. She heard the story in silence.

"So I must do just the best I can, Miss de Lisle," Norah ended. "And I'm wondering if you think I must really advertise for another housekeeper. It didn't seem to me that Mrs. Atkins did much except give orders, and surely I can do that, after a little practice." Norah flushed, and looked anxious. "Of course I don't want to make a mess of the whole thing. I know the house must be well run."

"Well," said Miss de Lisle, knitting with feverish energy, "I couldn't have said it if you hadn't asked me, but as you have, I would like to propose something. Perhaps it may sound as if I thought too much of myself, but with a cook like me you don't need a housekeeper. I have a conscience: and I know how things ought to be run. So my proposal is this, and you and your father must just do as you like about it. Why not make me cook-housekeeper?"

"Oh, but could you?" Norah cried delightedly. "Wouldn't it be too much work?"

"I don't think so—of course I'm expecting that you're going to help in supervising things. I can teach you anything. You see, Katty is a treasure. I back down in all I ever thought about Irish maids," said the cook-lady, parenthetically. "And she makes me laugh all day, and I wouldn't be without her for anything. Give me a smart boy in the kitchen for the rough work; then Katty can do more of the plain cooking, which she'll love, and I shall have more time out of the kitchen. Now what do you say?"

"Me?" said Norah. "I'd like to hug you!"

"I wish you would," said Miss de Lisle, knitting more frantically than ever. "You see, this is the first place I've been in where I've really been treated like a human being. You didn't patronize me, and you didn't snub me—any of you. But you laughed with me; and it was a mighty long time since laughing had come into my job. Dear me!" finished Miss de Lisle—"you've no idea how at home with you all I've felt since Allenby fell over me in the passage!"

"We loved you from that minute," said Norah, laughing. "Then you think we can really manage? You'll have to let me consult with you over everything—ordering, and all that: because I do want to learn my job. And you won't mind how many people we bring in?"

"Fill the house to explosion-point, if you like," said Miss de Lisle. "If you don't have a housekeeper you'll have two extra rooms to put your Tired People in. What's the good of a scheme like this if you don't run it thoroughly?"

She found herself suddenly hugged, to the no small disadvantage of the knitting.

"Oh, I'm so happy!" Norah cried. "Now I'm going to enjoy the Home for Tired People: and up till now Mrs. Atkins has lain on my soul like a ton of bricks. Bless you, Miss de Lisle! I'm going to tell Dad." Her racing footsteps flew down the corridor.

But Miss de Lisle sat still, with a half smile on her rugged face. Once she put her hand up to the place where Norah's lips had brushed her cheek.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "Well, it's fifteen years since any one did that." Still smiling, she picked up the knitting.



CHAPTER X

AUSTRALIA IN SURREY

The three Australians came that afternoon; and, like many Australians in the wilds of London with a vague idea of distances, having given themselves good time to catch their train, managed to catch the one before it; and so arrived at Homewood unheralded and unsung. Norah and Captain Hardress, who had been knocking golf-balls about, were crossing the terrace on their way to tea when the three slouched hats caught Norah's eye through the trees of the avenue. She gasped, dropped her clubs, and fled to meet them. Hardress stared: then, perceiving the newcomers, smiled a little and went on slowly.

"I'd like to see her doing a hundred yards!" he said.

The three soldiers jumped as the flying figure came upon them, round a bend in the drive. Then one of them sprang forward.

"Harry!" said Norah.

"My word, I am glad to see you!" said Harry Trevor, pumping her hand. "I say, Norah, you haven't changed a bit. You're just the same as when you were twelve—only that you've grown several feet."

"Did you expect to find me bald and fat?" Norah laughed. "Oh, Harry, we are glad to see you!"

"Well, you might have aged a little," said he. "Goodness knows I have! Norah, where's old Jim?"

"He's at Aldershot—but you can be certain that he'll be here as soon as he possibly can—and Wally too."

"That's good business." He suddenly remembered his friends, who were affecting great interest in the botanical features of a beech-tree. "Come here, you chaps; Norah, this is Jack Blake—and Dick Harrison. They're awfully glad to see you, too!"

"Well, you might have let us say it for ourselves, digger," said the two, shaking hands. "We were just going to."

"It's lovely to have you all," said Norah. She looked over the tree—all tall fellows, lean and bronzed, with quiet faces and deep-set eyes, Blake bore a sergeant's stripes; Dick Harrison's sleeve modestly proclaimed him a lance-corporal.

"We've been wandering in that funny old London like lost sheep," Blake said. "My word, that's a lonesome place, if you don't happen to know any one in it. And people look at you as if you were something out of a Zoo."

"They're not used to you yet," said Norah. "It's the hat, as much as anything."

"I don't know about that," Harry said. "No, I think they'd know we came out of a different mob, even if we weren't branded."

"Perhaps they would—and you certainly do," Norah answered. "But come on to the house. Dad is just as anxious to see you as any one."

Indeed, as they came in sight of the house, David Linton was seen coming with long strides to meet them.

"Hardress told me you had suddenly turned into a Marathon runner at the sight of three big hats!" he said. "How are you, Harry? It's an age since we saw you."

"Yes, isn't it?" Harry shook hands warmly, and introduced his friends. "You haven't changed either, Mr. Linton."

"I ought to be aging—only Norah won't hear of it," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "She bullies me more hopelessly than ever, Harry."

"She always did," Trevor agreed. "Oh, I want to talk about Billabong for an hour! How's Brownie, Nor? and Murty O'Toole? and Black Billy? How do you manage to live away from them?"

"It isn't easy," Norah answered. "They're all very fit, only they want us back. We can't allow ourselves to think of the day that we'll get home, or we all grow light-headed."

"It will be no end of a day for all of us," said Harrison. "Think of marching down Collins Street again, with the crowd cheering us—keeping an eye out for the people one knew! It was fairly beastly marching up it for the last time."

"It's not Collins Street I want, but a bit of the Gippsland track," said Jack Blake. "You know, Dick, we took cattle there last year. Over the Haunted Hills—aren't they jolly in the spring!—and down through the scrub to Morwell and Traralgon. I'd give something to see that bit of country again."

"Ah, it's all good country," David Linton said. Then they were at the house, and a buzz of conversation floated out to them from the hall, where tea was in progress.

"Your father simply made me promise to go on without you," said Mrs. West, as Norah made her apologies. "I said it was dreadful, but he wouldn't listen to me. And there are your friends! Dear me, how large they are, and so brown! Do introduce them to me: I'm planning to hear all about Australia. And a sergeant and lance-corporal! Isn't it romantic to see them among us, and quite at their ease. Don't tell them I'm a Colonel's wife, my dear; I would hate them to feel embarrassed!"

"I don't think you need worry," said Norah, smiling to herself. She brought up the three newcomers and introduced them. They subsided upon a sofa, and listened solemnly while Mrs. West opened all her conversational batteries upon them. Norah heard the opening—"I've read such a lot about your charming country!" and felt a throb of pity for the three wanderers from afar.

Hardress came towards her with a cup of tea, his limb a little more evident.

"You're tired," she said, taking it from him. "Sure you haven't done too much?"

"Not a bit," he said. "I'm a little tired, but it's the best day I have had for many a month. I don't know when I enjoyed anything as much as my motor-lesson this morning."

"Con says you'll be able to drive in Piccadilly in no time," said Norah.

"He's hopeful," Hardress said, laughing. "Particularly as we never started the car at all—he made me learn everything I could about it first. And did he tell you I rode Brecon?"

"No! How did you get on?" asked Norah delightedly.

"Well, I literally got on very badly—at first. The shop leg didn't seem to understand what was wanted of it at all, and any steed but Brecon would have strongly resented me. But he stood in a pensive attitude while I tried all sorts of experiments. In fact, I think he went to sleep!"

"I told you you could rely on Brecon," Norah smiled. "What happened then?"

"Oh—I got used to myself, and found out the knack of getting on. It's not hard, with a steady horse, once you find out how. But I think Brecon will do me very well for awhile."

"Oh, we'll soon get you on to Brunette," Norah said. "You'd enjoy her."

"Is that the black pony?"

"Yes—and she's a lovely hack. I'm going to hunt her in the winter: she jumps like a deer."

"She looked a beauty, in the stable," Hardress said. "She ought to make a good polo-pony." He sighed. "I wonder if I'll really ever play polo again."

"Of course you will," Norah told him. "This morning you didn't think you would ever get on a horse again."

"No, I certainly didn't. You have put an extraordinary amount of hope into me: I feel a different being." He stopped, and a smile crept into his eyes. "Listen—aren't your friends having a time!"

"Life must be so exciting on your great cattle ranches," Mrs. West was saying. "And the dear little woolly lambs on the farms—such pets!"

"We understood you people over here prefer them frozen," Blake said gently. "So we send 'em that way."

Norah choked over her tea. She became aware that Colonel West was speaking to her, and tried to command her wits—hearing, as she turned, Mrs. West's shrill pipe—"And what is a wheat-belt? Is it something you wear?" Norah would have given much to hear Blake's reply.

"Delightful place you have here!" barked the Colonel. "Your father and I have been spending an agricultural afternoon; planning all the things he means to do on that farm—Hawkins', isn't it? But I suppose you don't take much interest in that sort of thing? Dances and frocks more in your line—and chocolates, eh, what?"

"Then you've changed her in England," said Harry Trevor suddenly. "Is it dances now, Norah? No more quick things over the grass after a cross-grained bullock? Don't say you've forgotten how to use a stockwhip!"

"It's hung up at Billabong," Norah said laughing. "But you wait until I get back to it, that's all!"

"Dear me!" said Mrs. West. "And you do these wonderful things too! I always longed to do them as a girl—to ride over long leagues of plain on a fiery mustang, among your lovely eucalyptus trees. And do you really go out with the cowboys, and use a lasso?"

"She does," said Harry, happily.

"Your wild animals, too," said Mrs. West. "It's kangaroos you ride down with spears, is it not? And wallabies. We live in dear, quiet little England, but we read all about your wonderful life, and are oh! so interested."

"What a life!" said Dick Harrison, under his breath.

"Quite. You know, I had a great friend who went out as A.D.C. to one of your Governors. He had to return after a month, because his father died and he came into the baronetcy, but some day he means to write a book on Australia. That is why I have always, as it were, kept in touch with your great country. I seem to know it so well, though I have never seen it."

"You do, indeed," said Blake gravely. "I wish we knew half as much about yours."

"Ah, but you must let us show it to you. Is it not yours, too? Outposts of Empire: that is what I call you: outposts of Empire. Is it not that that brought you to fight under our flag?"

"Oh, rather," said Blake vaguely. "But a lot of us just wanted a look in at the fun!"

"Well—you got a good deal for a start," said Garrett.

"Yes—Abdul gave us all we wanted on his little peninsula. But he's not a bad fighting-man, old Abdul; we don't mind how often we take tea with him. He's a better man to fight than Fritz."

"He could pretty easily be that," Garrett said. "It's one of the worst grudges we owe Fritz—that he's taken all the decency out of war. It used to be a man's game, but the Boche made it one according to his own ideas—and everybody knows what they are."

"Yes," said Hardress. "I suppose the Boche will do a good deal of crawling to get back among decent people after the war; but he'll never live down his poison-gas and flame-throwers."

"And wouldn't it have been a gorgeous old war if he'd only fought clean!" said Garrett longingly. They drew together and talked as fighting men will—veterans in the ways of war, though the eldest was not much over one-and-twenty.

The sudden hoot of a motor came from the drive, far-off; and then another, and another.

"Some one's joy-riding," said Harry Trevor.

The hooting increased, and with it the hum of a racing car. The gravel outside the porch crunched as it drew up; and then came cheery voices, and two long figures in great coats dashed in: Jim and Wally, eager-eyed.

"Dad! Norah! Where's old Harry?"

But Harry was grasping a hand of each, and submitting to mighty pats on the back from their other hands.

"By Jove, it's great to see you! Where did you come from, you old reprobate? Finished Johnny Turk?"

Gradually the boys became aware that there were other people in the hall, and made apologies—interrupted by another burst of joy at discovering Garrett.

"You must think us bears," said Jim, with his disarming smile, to Mrs. West. "But we hadn't seen Trevor for years, and he's a very old chum. It would have been exciting to meet him in Australia; but in England—well!"

"However did you manage to come?" Norah asked, beaming.

"Oh, we got leave. We've been good boys—at least, Wally was until we got your message this morning. Since then he has been wandering about like a lost fowl, murmuring, 'Harry! My Harry!'"

"Is it me?" returned Wally. "Don't believe him, Nor—it was all I could do to keep him from slapping the C.O. on the back and borrowing his car to come over."

"I don't doubt it," Norah laughed. "Whose car did you borrow, by the way?"

"Oh, we hired one. It was extravagant, but we agreed that it wasn't every day we kill a pig!"

"Thank you," said Harry. "Years haven't altered your power of putting a thing nicely!" He smote Wally affectionately. "I say, you were a kid when I saw you last: a kid in knickerbockers. And look at you now!"

"Well, you were much the same," Wally retorted. "And now you're a hardened old warrior—I've only played at it so far."

"But you were gassed, weren't you?"

"Yes—but we hadn't had much war before they gassed us. That was the annoying part."

"Well, didn't you have a little private war in Ireland? What about that German submarine?"

"Oh, that was sheer luck," said Wally joyfully. "Such a lark—only for one thing. But we don't consider we've earned our keep yet."

"Oh, well, you've got lots of time," Harry said. "I wonder if they'll send any of us to France—it would be rather fun if we got somewhere in your part of the line."

"Yes, wouldn't it?" Then Jack Blake, who had been at school with the boys, came up with Dick Harrison, and England ceased to exist for the five Australians. They talked of their own country—old days at school; hard-fought battles on the Melbourne Cricket Ground; boat-racing on the Yarra; Billabong and other stations; bush-fires and cattle-yarding; long days on the road with cattle, and nights spent watching them under the stars. All the grim business of life that had been theirs since those care-free days seemed but to make their own land dearer by comparison. Not that they said so, in words. But they lingered over their talk with an unspoken delight in being at home again—even in memory.

Norah slipped away, regretfully enough, after a time: her responsibilities as housekeeper weighed upon her, and she sought Miss de Lisle in the kitchen.

"What, your brother and Mr. Wally? How delightful!" ejaculated the cook-lady. "That's what I call really jolly. Their rooms are always ready, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," Norah said. "I've told Bride to put sheets on the beds."

"Then that's all right. Dinner? My dear, you need never worry about a couple extra for dinner in a household of this size. Just tell the maids to lay the table accordingly, and let me know—that is all you need do."

"Mrs. Atkins had destroyed my nerve!" said Norah, laughing. "I came down to tell you with the same scared feeling that I had when I used to go to her room. My very knees were shaking!"

"Then you're a very bad child, if you are my employer!" returned Miss de Lisle. "However, I'll forgive you: but some time I want you to make a list for me of the things those big boys of yours like most: I might just as well cook them as not, when they come. And of course, when they go out to France, we shall have to send them splendid hampers."

"That will be a tremendous comfort," Norah said. "You're a brick, Miss de Lisle. We used to send them hampers before, of course, but it seemed so unsatisfactory just to order them at the Stores: it will be ever so much nicer to cook them things. You will let me cook, won't you?"

"Indeed I will," said Miss de Lisle. "We'll shut ourselves up here for a day, now and then, and have awful bouts of cookery. How did you like the potato cakes at tea, by the way?"

"They were perfect," Norah said. "I never tasted better, even in Ireland." At which Katty, who had just entered with a saucepan, blushed hotly, and cast an ecstatic glance at Miss de Lisle.

"I don't suppose you did," remarked that lady. "You see, Katty made them."

"Wasn't she good, now, to let me, Miss Norah?" Katty asked. "There's them at home that towld me I'd get no chance at all of learning under a grand cook here. 'Tis little the likes of them 'ud give you to do in the kitchen: if you asked them for a job, barring it was to wash the floor, they'd pitch you to the Sivin Divils. 'Isn't the scullery good enough for you?' they'd say. 'Cock you up with the cooking!' But Miss de Lisle isn't one of them—and the cakes to go up to the drawing-room itself!"

"Well, every one liked them, Katty," Norah said.

"Yerra, hadn't I Bridie watching behind the big screen with the crack in it?" said the handmaid. "She come back to me, and she says, 'They're all ate,' says she: ''tis the way ye had not enough made,' she says. I didn't know if 'twas on me head or me heels I was!" She bent a look of adoration upon Miss de Lisle, who laughed.

"Oh, I'll make a cook of you yet, Katty," she said. "Meanwhile you'd better put some coal on the fire, or the oven won't be hot enough for my pastry. Is it early breakfast for your brother and Mr. Wally, Miss Linton?"

"I'm afraid so," Norah said. "Jim said they must leave at eight o'clock."

"Then that means breakfast at seven-thirty. Will you have yours with them?"

"Oh yes, please—if it's not too much trouble."

"Nothing's a trouble—certainly not an early breakfast," said Miss de Lisle. "Now don't worry about anything."

Norah went back to the hall—to find it deserted. A buzz of voices came from the billiard-room; she peeped in to find all the soldiers talking with her father listening happily in a big chair. No one saw her: she withdrew, and went in search of Mrs. West, but failed to find her. Bride, encountered in her evening tour with cans of hot water, reported that 'twas lying down she was, and not wishful for talk: her resht was more to her.

"Then I may as well go and dress," Norah said.

She had just finished when a quick step came along the corridor, and stopped at her door. Jim's fingers beat the tattoo that was always their signal.

"Come in, Jimmy," Norah cried.

He came in, looming huge in the dainty little room.

"Good business—you're dressed," he said. "Can I come and yarn?"

"Rather," said Norah, beaming. "Come and sit down in my armchair. This electric heater isn't as jolly to yarn by as a good old log fire, but still, it's something." She pulled her chair forward.

"Can't you wait for me to do that—bad kid!" said Jim. He sat down, and Norah subsided on the rug near him.

"Now tell me all about everything," he said. "How are things going?"

"Quite well—especially Mrs. Atkins," said Norah. "In fact she's gone!"

Jim sat up.

"Gone! But how?"

Norah told him the story, and he listened with joyful ejaculations.

"Well, she was always the black spot in the house," he remarked. "It gave one the creeps to look at her sour face, and I'm certain she was more bother to you than she was worth."

"Oh, I feel twenty years younger since she went!" Norah said. "And it's going to be great fun to housekeep with Miss de Lisle. I shall learn ever so much."

"So will she, I imagine," said Jim, laughing. "Put her up to all the Australian ways, and see if we can't make a good emigrant of her when we go back."

"I might," Norah said. "But she would be a shock to Brownie if she suggested putting her soul into a pudding!"

"Rather!" said Jim, twinkling. "I say, tell me about Hardress. Do you like him?"

"Oh, yes, ever so much." She told him of her morning's work—indeed, by the time the gong boomed out its summons from the hall, there was very little in the daily life of Homewood that Jim had not managed to hear.

"We're always wondering how you are getting on," he said. "It's jolly over there—the work is quite interesting, and there's a very nice lot of fellows: but I'd like to look in at you two and see how this show was running." He hesitated. "It won't be long before we go out, Nor, old chap."

"Won't it, Jimmy?" She put up a hand and caught his. "Do you know how long?"

"A week or two—not more. But you're not to worry. You've just got to think of the day when we'll get our first leave—and then you'll have to leave all your Tired People and come and paint London red." He gave a queer laugh. "Oh, I don't know, though. It seems to be considered the right thing to do. But I expect we'll just amble along here and ask you for a job in the house!"

"Why, you'll be Tired People yourselves," said Norah. "We'll have to look after you and give you nourishment at short intervals."

"We'll take that, if it's Miss de Lisle's cooking. Now don't think about this business too much. I thought I'd better tell you, but nothing is definite yet. Perhaps I'd better not tell Dad."

"No, don't; he's so happy."

"I wish I didn't have to make either of you less happy," Jim said in a troubled voice. "But it can't be helped."

"No, I know it can't, Jimmy. Don't you worry."

"Dear old chap," said Jim, and stood up. "I had better go and make myself presentable before the second gong goes." He paused. "You're all ready aren't you? Then you might go down. Wally will be wandering round everywhere, looking for you."



CHAPTER XI

CHEERO!

It was ten days later that the summons to France came—ten days during which the boys had managed to make several meteoric dashes over to Homewood for the night, and had accomplished one blissful week-end, during which, with the aid of their fellow-countrymen, they had brought the household to the verge of exhaustion from laughter. Nothing could damp their spirits: they rode and danced, sang and joked, and, apparently, having no cares in the world themselves, were determined that no one else should have any. The Hunt family were drawn into the fun: the kitchen was frequently invaded, and Miss de Lisle declared that even her sitting-room was not sacred—and was privately very delighted that it was not. Allenby began to develop a regrettable lack of control over his once stolid features; Sarah herself was observed to stuff her apron into her mouth and rush from the dining-room on more than one occasion. And under cover of his most energetic fooling Jim Linton watched his father and sister, and fooled the more happily whenever he made them laugh.

They arrived together unexpectedly on this last evening, preferring to bring their news rather than give it by telephone; and found, instead of the usual cheery tea-party in the hall, only silence and emptiness. Allenby, appearing, broke into a broad smile of pleasure as he greeted them.

"Every one's out, Mr. Jim."

"So it seems," Jim answered. "Where are they?"

"Not very far, sir," Allenby said. "Mrs. 'Unt has them all to tea with her to-day."

"Oh, we'll go over, Wal," Jim said. "Come and make yourself pretty: you've a splash of mud on your downy cheek." At the foot of the stairs he turned. "We're off to-morrow, Allenby."

Allenby's face fell.

"To France, sir?"

Jim nodded.

"The master and Miss Norah will be very sorry, sir. If I may say so, the 'ole 'ousehold will be sorry."

"Thanks, Allenby. We'll miss you all," Jim said pleasantly. He sprang upstairs after Wally.

Mrs. Hunt's sitting-room was already dangerously crowded—there seemed no room at all for the two tall lads for whom Eva opened the door ten minutes later. A chorus of welcome greeted them, nevertheless.

"This is delightful," said Mrs. Hunt. "I'm sure I don't know how you're going to fit in, but you must manage it somehow. If necessary we'll all stand up and re-pack ourselves, but I warn you it is risky: the walls may not stand it!"

"Oh, don't trouble, Mrs. Hunt," Jim said. "We're quite all right." Both boys' eyes had sought Norah as they entered: and Norah, meeting the glance, felt a sudden pang at her heart, and knew.

"My chair is ever so much too big for me," she said. "You can each have an arm."

"Good idea!" said Wally, perching on the broad arm of the easy-chair that swallowed her up. "Come along, Jim, or we'll be lop-sided!"

"We put Norah in the biggest chair in the room, and everybody is treating her with profound respect," Mrs. Hunt said. "This is the first day for quite a while that she hasn't been hostess, so we made her chief guest, and she is having a rest-cure."

"If you treat Norah with respect it won't have at all a restful effect on her," said Wally. "I've tried." To which Norah inquired, "When?" in a voice of such amazement that every one laughed.

"Misunderstood as usual," said Wally pathetically. "It really doesn't pay to be like me and have a meek spirit: people only think you are a worm, and trample on you. Come here, Geoff, and take care of me:" and Geoffrey, who adored him, came. "Have you been riding old Brecon lately?"

"'M!" said Geoffrey, nodding. "I can canter now!"

"Good man! Any tosses?"

"Well, just one," Geoffrey admitted. "He cantered before I had gotted ready, and I fell off. But it didn't hurt."

"That's right. You practise always falling on a soft spot, and you need never worry."

"But I'd rather practise sticking on," said Geoffrey. "It's nicer."

"You might practise both," said Wally. "You'll have plenty of both, you know." He laughed at the puzzled face. "Never mind, old chap. How are the others, and why aren't they here?"

"They're too little," Geoffrey said loftily. "Small childrens don't come in to tea, at least not when there's parties. I came, 'cause Mother says I'm getting 'normous."

"So you are. Are the others quite well?"

"Oh yes," Geoffrey answered, clearly regarding the question as foolish. "They're all right. Alison's got a puppy, and Michael's been eating plate-powder. His mouf was all pink."

"What's that about my Michael," demanded Mrs. Hunt. "Oh yes—we found him making a hearty meal of plate-powder this morning. Douglas says it should make him very bright. I'm thankful to say it doesn't seem to be going to kill him."

"Michael never will realize that there is a war on," said Major Hunt, aggrieved. "I found him gnawing the strap of one of my gaiters the other day."

"You shouldn't underfeed the poor kid," said Wally. "It's clear that he's finding his nourishment when and how he can. Isn't there a Society for dealing with people like you?"

"There is," said Jim solemnly. "It's called the Police Force."

"You're two horrible boys!" said their hostess, laughing. "And my lovely fat Michael!—he's getting so corpulent he can hardly waddle. He and the puppy are really very like each other; both of them find it easier to roll than to run." She cast an inquiring eye round the room: "Some more tea, Norah?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hunt." Norah's voice sounded strange in her own ears. She wanted to get away from the room, and the light-hearted chatter . . . to make sure, though she was sure already. The guns of France seemed to sound very near her.

The party broke up after a while. Jim and Wally lingered behind the others.

"Will you and the Major come over this evening, Mrs. Hunt? We're off to-morrow."

"Oh—I'm sorry." Mrs. Hunt's face fell. "Poor Norah!"

"Norah will keep smiling," said Jim. "But I'm jolly glad you're so near her, Mrs. Hunt. You'll keep an eye on them, won't you? I'd be awfully obliged if you would."

"You may be very sure I will," she said. "And there will be a tremendous welcome whenever you get leave."

"We won't lose any time in coming for it," Jim said. "Blighty means more than ever it did, now that we've got a real home. Then you'll come to-night?"

"Of course we will." She watched them stride off into the shrubbery, and choked back a sigh.

Norah came back to them through the trees.

"It's marching orders, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's marching orders, old kiddie," Jim answered. They looked at each other steadily: and then Norah's eyes met Wally's.

"When?" she asked.

"To-morrow morning."

"Well——" said Norah; and drew a long breath. "And I haven't your last week's socks darned! That comes of having too many responsibilities. Any buttons to be sewn on for either of you?"

"No, thanks," they told her, greatly relieved. She tucked a hand into an arm of each boy, and they went towards the house. David Linton came out hurriedly to meet them.

"Allenby says——" he began. He did not need to go further.

"We were trotting in to tell you," said Jim.

"We'll be just in time to give the Boche a cheery Christmas," said Wally. "Norah, are you going to send us a Christmas hamper? With a pudding?"

"Rather!" Norah answered. "And I'll put a lucky pig, and a button, and a threepenny-bit in it, so you'd better eat it with care, or you may damage your teeth. Miss de Lisle and I are going to plan great parcels for you; she's going to teach me to cook all sorts of things."

"After which you'll try them on the dogs—meaning us," Jim said, laughing. "Well, if we don't go into hospital after them, we'll let you know."

They came into the house, where already the news of the boys' going had spread, and the "Once-Tired's," as Wally called their guests, were waiting to wish them luck. Then everybody faded away unobtrusively, and left them to themselves. They went into the morning-room, and Norah darned socks vigorously while the boys kept up a running fire of cheery talk. Whatever was to come they would meet it with their heads up—all four.

They made dinner a revel—every one dressed in their best, and "playing-up" to their utmost, while Miss de Lisle—the only person in the house who had wept—had sent up a dinner which really left her very little extra chance of celebrating Peace, when that most blessed day should come. Over dessert, Colonel West rose unexpectedly, and made a little speech, proposing the health of the boys, who sat, for the first time, with utterly miserable faces, restraining an inclination to get under the table.

"I am sure," said the Colonel, "that we all wish the—ah—greatest of luck to our host's sons—ah, that is, to his son and to—ah—his—ah——"

"Encumbrance," said Wally firmly.

"Quite," said the Colonel, without listening. "We know they will—ah—make things hot for the Boche—ah—whenever they get a chance. I—we—hope they will get plenty of chances: and—ah—that we will see them—ah—back, with decorations and promotion. We will miss them—ah—very much. Speaking—ah—personally, I came here fit for nothing, and have—ah—laughed so much that I—ah—could almost believe myself a subaltern!"

The Tired People applauded energetically, and Mrs. West said "Quite—quite!" But there was something like tears in her eyes as she said it.

The Hunts arrived after dinner, and they all woke the house with ringing choruses—echoed by Allenby in his pantry, as he polished the silver; and Garrett sang a song which was not encored because something in his silver tenor made a lump come into Norah's throat; and there was no room for that, to-night, of all nights. Jack Blake sang them a stockrider's song, with a chorus in which all the Australians joined; and Dick Harrison recited "The Geebung Polo Club," without any elocutionary tricks, and brought down the house. Jim had slipped out to speak to Allenby: and presently, going out, they found the hall cleared, and the floor waxed for dancing. They danced to gramophone music, manipulated by Mr. Linton: and Norah and Mrs. Hunt had to divide each dance into three, except those with Jim and Wally, which they refused to partition, regardless of disconsolate protests from the other warriors. It was eleven o'clock when Allenby announced stolidly, "Supper is served, sir!"

"Supper?" said Mr. Linton. "How's this, Norah?"

"I don't know," said his daughter. "Ask Miss de Lisle!"

They filed in, to find a table laden and glittering; in the centre a huge cake, bearing the greeting, "Good Luck!" with a silken Union Jack waving proudly. Norah whispered to her father, and then ran away. She returned, presently, dragging the half-unwilling cook-lady.

"It's against all my rules!" protested the captive.

"Rules be hanged!" said Jim cheerfully. "Just you sit there, Miss de Lisle." And the cook-lady found herself beside Colonel West, who paid her great attention, regarding her, against the evidence of his eyes, as a Tired Person whom he had not previously chanced to meet.

"My poor, neglected babies!" said Mrs. Hunt tragically, as twelve strokes chimed from the grandfather clock in the hall. Wally and Norah, crowned with blue and scarlet paper caps, the treasure of crackers, were performing a weird dance which they called, with no very good reason, a tango. It might have been anything, but it satisfied the performers. The music stopped suddenly, and Mr. Linton wound up the gramophone for the last time, slipping on a new record. The notes of "Auld Lang Syne," stole out.

They gathered round, holding hands while they sang it; singing with all their lungs and all their hearts: Norah between Jim and Wally, feeling her fingers crushed in each boyish grip.

"Then here's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine."

Over the music her heart listened to the booming of the guns across the Channel. But she set her lips and sang on.

*****

It was morning, and they were on the station. The train came slowly round the corner.

"I'll look after him, Nor." Wally's voice shook. "Don't worry too much, old girl."

"And yourself, too," she said.

"Oh, I'll keep an eye on him," said Jim. "And Dad's your job."

"And we'll plan all sorts of things for your next leave," said David Linton. "God bless you, boys."

They gripped hands. Then Jim put his arms round Norah's shoulder.

"You'll keep smiling, kiddie? Whatever comes?"

"Yes, I promise, Jimmy."

The guard was shouting.

"All aboard."

"Cheero, Norah!" Wally cried from the window. "We'll be back in no time!"

"Cheero!" She made the word come somehow. The train roared off round the curve.



CHAPTER XII

OF LABOUR AND PROMOTION

The months went by quickly enough, as David Linton and his daughter settled down to their work at the Home for Tired People. As the place became more widely known they had rarely an empty room. The boys' regiment sent them many a wearied officer, too fagged in mind and body to enjoy his leave: the hospitals kept up a constant supply of convalescent and maimed patients; and there was a steady stream of Australians of all ranks, who came, homesick for their own land, and found a little corner of it planted in the heart of Surrey. Gradually, as the Lintons realized the full extent of the homesickness of the lads from overseas, Homewood became more and more Australian in details. Pictures from every State appeared on the walls: aboriginal weapons and curiosities, woven grass mats from the natives of Queensland, Australian books and magazines and papers—all were scattered about the house. They filled vases with blue-gum leaves and golden wattle-blossom from the South of France: Norah even discovered a flowering boronia in a Kew nurseryman's greenhouse and carried it off in triumph, to scent the house with the unforgettable delight of its perfume. She never afterwards saw a boronia without recalling the bewilderment of her fellow-travellers in the railway carriage at her exquisitely-scented burden.

"You should have seen their wondering noses, Dad!" said Norah, chuckling.

No one, of course, stayed very long at Homewood, unless he were hopelessly unfit. From ten days to three weeks was the average stay: then, like ships that pass in the night, the "Once-Tireds," drifted away. But very few forgot them. Little notes came from the Fronts, in green Active Service envelopes: postcards from Mediterranean ports; letters from East and West Africa; grateful letters from wives in garrison stations and training camps throughout the British Isles. They accumulated an extraordinary collection of photographs in uniform; and Norah had an autograph book with scrawled signatures, peculiar drawings and an occasional scrap of very bad verse.

Major Hunt, his hand fully recovered, returned to the Front in February, and his wife prepared to seek another home. But the Lintons flatly refused to let her go.

"We couldn't do it," said David Linton. "Doesn't the place agree with the babies?"

"Oh, you know it does," said Mrs. Hunt. "But we have already kept the cottage far too long—there are other people."

"Not for that cottage," Norah said.

"It really isn't fair," protested their guest. "Douglas never dreamed of our staying: if he had not been sent out in such a hurry at the last he would have moved us himself."

David Linton looked at her for a moment.

"Go and play with the babies, Norah," he said. "I want to talk to this obstinate person."

"Now look, Mrs. Hunt," he said, as Norah went off, rather relieved—Norah hated arguments. "You know we run this place for an ideal—a dead man's ideal. He wanted more than anything in the world to help the war; we're merely carrying on for him. We can only do it by helping individuals."

"But you have done that for us. Look at Douglas—strong and fit, with one hand as good as the other. Think of what he was when he came here!"

"He may not always be fit. And if you stay here you ease his worries by benefiting his children—and saving for their future. Then, if he has the bad luck to be wounded again, his house is all ready for him."

"I know," she said. "And I would stay, but that there are others who need it more."

"Well, we haven't heard of them. Look at it another way. I am getting an old man; it worries me a good deal to think that Norah has no woman to mother her. I used to think," he said with a sigh, "that it was worse for them to lose their own mother when they were wee things; now, I am not sure that Norah's loss is not just beginning. It's no small thing for her to have an influence like yours; and Norah loves you."

Mrs. Hunt flushed.

"Indeed, I love her," she said.

"Then stay and mother her. There are ever so many things you can teach her that I can't: that Miss de Lisle can't, good soul as she is. They're not things I can put into words—but you'll understand. I know she's clean and wholesome right through, but you can help to mould her for womanhood. Of course, she left school far too early, but there seemed no help for it. And if—if bad news comes to us from the Front—for any of us—we can all help each other."

Mrs. Hunt thought deeply.

"If you really think I can be of use I will stay," she said. "I'm not going to speak of gratitude—I tried to say all that long ago. But indeed I will do what I can."

"That's all right: I'm very glad," said David Linton.

"And if you really want her taught more," Mrs. Hunt said—"well, I was a governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She could come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris. Her music, too: she really should practise, with her talent."

"I'd like it above all things," exclaimed Mr. Linton. "Norah's neglected education has been worrying me badly."

"We'll plan it out," Mrs. Hunt said. "Now I feel much happier."

Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay at the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the plan—helped by the fact that she was always a little afraid of failing to come up to Jim's standard. A fear which would considerably have amazed Jim, had he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit hours of study into her day. She rose early to practise, before the Tired People were awake; and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs. Hunt or chattering French, while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and the babies slept in their white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr. Linton's heels, either on Brecon or afoot. The big Australian squatter and the little English boy had become great friends: there was something in the tiny lad that recalled the Jim of long ago, with his well-knit figure and steady eyes.

One man alone, out of all Tired People, had never left Homewood.

For a time after his arrival Philip Hardress had gained steadily in strength and energy; then a chill had thrown him back, and for months he sagged downwards; never very ill, but always losing vitality. The old depression seemed to come back to him tenfold. He could see nothing good in life: a cripple, a useless cripple. His parents were dead; save for a brother in Salonica, he was alone in the world. He was always courteous, always gentle; but a wall of misery seemed to cut him off from the household.

Then the magnificent physique of the boy asserted itself, and gradually he grew stronger, and the hacking cough left him. Again it became possible to tempt him to try to ride. He spent hours in the keen wintry air, jogging round the fields and lanes with Mr. Linton and Geoffrey, returning with something of the light in his eyes that had encouraged Norah in his first morning, long ago.

"I believe all he wants is to get interested in something," Norah said, watching him, one day, as he sat on the stone wall of the terrace, looking across the park. "He was at Oxford before he joined the Army, wasn't he, Dad?"

Mr. Linton assented. "His people arranged when he was little that he should be a barrister. But he hated the idea. His own wish was to go out to Canada."

Norah pondered.

"Couldn't you give him a job on the farm, Dad?"

"I don't know," said her father. "I never thought of it. I suppose I might find him something to do; Hawkins and I will be busy enough presently."

"He's beginning to worry at being here so long," Norah said. "Of course, we couldn't possibly let him go: he isn't fit for his own society. I think if you could find him some work he would be more content."

So David Linton, after thinking the matter over, took Hardress into his plans for the farm which was to be the main source of supply for Homewood. He found him a quick and intelligent helper. The work was after the boy's own heart: he surrounded himself with agricultural books and treaties on fertilizers, made a study of soils, and took samples of earth from different parts of the farm—to the profound disgust of Hawkins. War had not done away with all expert agricultural science in England: Hardress sent his little packets of soil away, and received them back with advice as to treatment which, later on, resulted in the yield of the land being doubled—which Hawkins attributed solely to his own skill as a cultivator. But the cure was worked in Philip Hardress. The ring of hope came back into his voice: the "shop-leg" dragged ever so little, as he walked across the park daily to where the ploughs were turning the grass of the farm fields into stretches of brown, dotted with white gulls that followed the horses' slow plodding up and down. The other guests took up a good deal of Mr. Linton's time: he was not sorry to have an overseer, since Hawkins, while honest and painstaking, was not afflicted with any undue allowance of brains. Together, in the study at night, they planned out the farm into little crops. Already much of the land was ready for the planting, and a model poultry-run built near the house was stocked with birds; while a flock of sheep grazed in the park, and to the tiny herd of cows had been added half a dozen pure-bred Jerseys. David Linton had taken Hardress with him on the trip to buy the stock, and both had enjoyed it thoroughly.

Meanwhile the boys at the Front sent long and cheery letters almost daily. Astonishment had come to them almost as soon as they rejoined, in finding themselves promoted; they gazed at their second stars in bewilderment which was scarcely lessened by the fact that their friends in the regiment were not at all surprised.

"Why, didn't you have a war on your own account in Ireland?" queried Anstruther. "You got a Boche submarine sunk and caught half the crew, didn't you?"

"Well, but that was only a lark!" said Wally.

"You were wounded, anyhow, young Meadows. Of course we know jolly well you don't deserve anything, but you can't expect the War Office to have our intimate sources of information." He patted Wally on the back painfully. "Just be jolly thankful you get more screw, and don't grumble. No one'll ever teach sense to the War Office!"

There was no lack of occupation in their part of the line. They saw a good deal of fighting, and achieved some reputation as leaders of small raids: Jim, in particular, having a power of seeing and hearing at night that had been developed in long years in the Bush—but which seemed to the Englishmen almost uncanny. There was reason to believe that the enemy felt even more strongly about it—there was seldom rest for the weary Boche in the trenches opposite Jim Linton's section. Some of his raids were authorized: others were not. It is probable that the latter variety was more discouraging to the enemy.

Behind the fighting line they were in fairly comfortable billets. The officers were hardworked: the daily programme of drill and parades was heavy, and in addition there was the task of keeping the men interested and fit: no easy matter in the bitter cold of a North France winter. Jim proved a tower of strength to his company commander, as he had been to his school. He organized football teams, and taught them the Australian game: he appealed to his father for aid, and in prompt response out came cases of boxing-gloves, hockey and lacrosse sets, and footballs enough to keep every man going. Norah sent a special gift—a big case of indoor games for wet weather, with a splendid bagatelle board that made the battalion deeply envied by less fortunate neighbours: until a German shell disobligingly burst just above it, and reduced it to fragments. However, Norah's disgust at the news was so deep that the Tired People in residence at Homewood at the moment conspired together, and supplied the battalion with a new board in her name; and this time it managed to escape destruction.

The battalion had some stiff fighting towards the end of the winter, and earned a pat on the back from high quarters for its work in capturing some enemy trenches. But they lost heavily, especially in officers. Jim's company commander was killed at his side: the boy went out at night into No-Man's Land and brought his body in single-handed, in grim defiance of the Boche machine-guns. Jim had liked Anstruther: it was not to be thought of that his body should be dishonoured by the touch of a Hun. Next day he had a far harder task, for Anstruther had asked him to write to his mother if he failed to come back. Jim bit his pen for two hours over that letter, and in his own mind stigmatized it as "a rotten effort," after it was finished. But the woman to whom it carried whatever of comfort was left in the world for her saw no fault in it. It was worn and frayed with reading when she locked it away with her dead son's letters.

Jim found himself a company commander after that day's fighting—doing captain's work without captain's rank. Wally was his subaltern, an arrangement rather doubted at first by the Colonel, until he saw that the chums played the game strictly, and maintained in working hours a discipline as firm as was their friendship. The men adored them: they knew their officers shirked neither work nor play, and that they knew their own limitations—neither Jim nor Wally ever deluded themselves with the idea that they knew as much as their hard-bitten non-commissioned officers. But they learned their men by heart, knowing each one's nickname and something of his private affairs; losing no opportunity of talking to them and gaining their confidence, and sizing them up, as they talked, just as in old days, as captains of the team, they had learned to size up boys at football. "If I've got to go over the top I want to know what Joe Wilkins and Tiny Judd are doing behind me," said Jim.

They had hoped for leave before the spring offensive, but it was impossible: the battalion was too shorthanded, and the enemy was endeavouring to be the four-times-armed man who "gets his fist in fust." In that early fighting it became necessary to deal with a nest of machine-guns that had got the range of their trenches to a nicety. Shells had failed to find them, and the list of casualties to their discredit mounted daily higher. Jim got the chance. He shook hands with Wally—a vision of miserable disappointment—in the small hours of a starlit night, and led a picked body of his men out of the front trench: making a long detour and finally working nearer and nearer to the spot he had studied through his periscope for hours during the day. Then he planted his men in a shell-hole, and wriggled forward alone.

The men lay waiting, inwardly chafing at being left. Presently their officer came crawling back to them.

"We've got 'em cold," he whispered. "Come along—and don't fire a shot."

It was long after daylight before the German guards in the main trenches suspected anything wrong with that particular nest of machine-guns, and marvelled at its silence. For there was no one left to tell them anything—of the fierce, silent onslaught from the rear; of men who dropped as it were from the clouds and fought with clubbed rifles, led by a boy who seemed in the starlight as tall as a young pine-tree. The gun-crews were sleeping, and most of them never woke again: the guards, drowsy in the quiet stillness, heard nothing until that swift, wordless avalanche was upon them.

In the British trench there was impatience and anxiety. The men waiting to go forward, if necessary, to support the raiders, crouched at the fire-step, muttering. Wally, sick with suspense, peered forward beside the Colonel, who had come in person to see the result of the raid.

"I believe they've missed their way altogether," muttered the Colonel angrily. "There should hove been shots long ago. It isn't like Linton. Dawn will be here soon, and the whole lot will be scuppered." He wheeled at a sudden commotion beyond him in the trench. "Silence there! What's that?"

"That" was Jim Linton and his warriors, very muddy, but otherwise undamaged. They dropped into the trench quietly, those who came first turning to receive heavy objects from those yet on top. Last of all Jim hopped down.

"Hullo, Wal!" he whispered. "Got 'em."

"Got 'em!" said the Colonel sternly. "What? Where have you been, sir?"

"I beg your pardon, sir—I didn't know you were there," Jim said, rather horrified. It is not given to every subaltern to call his commanding officer "Wal," when that is not his name. "I have the guns, sir."

"You have—what?"

"The Boche—I mean, the enemy, machine-guns. We brought them back, sir."

"You brought them back!" The Colonel leaned against the wall of the trench and began to laugh helplessly. "And your men?"

"All here, sir. We brought the ammunition, too," said Jim mildly. "It seemed a pity to waste it!"

Which things, being told in high places, brought Jim a mention in despatches, and, shortly afterwards, confirmation of his acting rank. It would be difficult to find fitting words to tell of the effect of this matter upon a certain grizzled gentleman and a very young lady who, when the information reached them were studying patent manures in a morning-room in a house in Surrey.

"He's—why," gasped Norah incredulously—"he's actually Captain Linton!"

"I suppose he is," said her father. "Doesn't it sound ridiculous!"

"I don't think it's ridiculous at all," said Norah warmly. "He deserved it. I think it sounds simply beautiful!"

"Do you know," said her father, somewhat embarrassed—"I really believe I agree with you!" He laughed. "Captain Linton!"

"Captain Linton!" reiterated Norah. "Our old Jimmy!" She swept the table clear. "Oh, Daddy, bother the fertilizers for to-night—I'm going to write to Billabong!"

"But it isn't mail-day to-morrow," protested her father mildly.

"No," said Norah. "But I'll explode if I don't tell Brownie!"

"And will the Captain be coming 'ome soon, Miss Norah?" inquired Allenby, a little later. The household had waxed ecstatic over the news.

"The Captain?" Norah echoed. "Oh, how nice of you, Allenby! It does sound jolly!"

"Miss de Lisle wishes to know, miss. The news 'as induced 'er to invent a special cake."

"We'll have to send it to the poor Captain, I'm afraid," said Norah, dimpling. "Dear me, I haven't told Mrs. Hunt! I must fly!" She dropped her pen, and fled to the cottage—to find her father there before her.

"I might have known you couldn't wait to tell," said Norah, laughing. "And he pretends he isn't proud, Mrs. Hunt!"

"I've given up even pretending," said her father, laughing. "I found myself shaking hands with Allenby in the most affectionate manner. You see, Mrs. Hunt, this sort of thing hasn't happened in the family before."