"By Jove, I wish we could borrow a few of their horses!"

"Might buck you off, my son," said Desmond. "Come on."

A little wood showed before them presently, and Desmond sighed with relief.

"That's our place, I think." He looked at the map again. "We've got to make for the south-west corner and find a big, hollow tree."

They brushed through the close-growing firs, starting in fear as an owl flew out above them, hooting dismally. It was not easy to find anything, for the moonlight was scarcely able to filter through the branches. Jim took the lead, and presently they scattered to look for the tree. Something big loomed up before Jim presently.

"It should be about here," he muttered, feeling with his hand for the hollow. Then, as he encountered a roughly-tied bundle, he whistled softly, and in a moment brought them all to his side.

There were four rough suits of clothes in the package; a big bag of bread, meat, and chocolate; and, most precious of all, a flat box containing maps, compasses, and some German money. They changed hurriedly, thrusting their uniforms deep into the hollow of the tree and covering them with leaves; and then divided the food. There was a faint hint of dawn in the sky when at length their preparations were complete.

"Well, you know your general direction, boys," Desmond said to Marsh and Fullerton. "Get as far as you can before light, and then hide for the day. Hide well, remember; they'll be looking for us pretty thoroughly to-day. Good luck!" They shook hands and hurried away in different directions.

Desmond and Jim came out into open fields beyond the wood, and settled down to steady running over field after field. Sometimes they stumbled over ploughed land; sometimes made their way between rows of mangolds or turnips, where their feet sank deeply into the yielding soil; then, with a scramble through a ditch or hedge, came upon grass land where sheep or cows gazed stolidly at the shadowy, racing figures. The east brightened with long streaks of pink; slowly the darkness died, and the yellow circle of the sun came up over the horizon, and found them still running—casting anxious glances to right and left in search of a hiding-place.

"Hang these open fields!—will they never end!" Desmond gasped. "We should be under cover now."

Behind a little orchard a farm-house came into view; they were almost upon a cow-house. It was daylight; a window in the house rattled up, and a man shouted to a barking dog. The fugitives ducked by a sudden impulse, and darted into the cow-shed.

It was a long, low building, divided into stables. There was no hiding-place visible, and despair held them for a moment. Then Jim caught sight of a rough ladder leading to an opening in the ceiling, and flung his hand towards it; he had no speech left. They went up it hand over hand, and found themselves in a dim loft, with pea-straw heaped at one end. Desmond was almost done.

"Lie down—quick!" Jim pushed him into the straw and covered him over with great bundles of it. Then he crawled in himself, pulling the rough pea-stalks over him until he had left himself only a peep-hole commanding the trap-door. As he did so, voices came into the stable.

They held their breath, feeling for their knives. Then Desmond smothered a laugh.

"What did they say?" Jim whispered.

"It would be 'Bail up, Daisy!' in English," Desmond whispered back. "They're beginning to milk the cows."

"I wish they'd milk Daisy up here," Jim grinned. "Man, but I'm thirsty!"

It was thirsty work, lying buried in the dusty pea-straw, in the close, airless loft. Hours went by, during which they dared not move, for when the milking was done, and the cows turned out, people kept coming and going in the shed. They picked up a little information about the war from their talk—Jim's German was scanty, but Desmond spoke it like a native; and in the afternoon a farmer from some distance away, who had apparently come to buy pigs, let fall the remark that a number of prisoners had escaped from the English camp. No one seemed much interested; the war was an incident, not really mattering so much, in their estimation, as the sale of the pigs. Then every one went away, and Jim and his companion fell asleep.

It was nearly dark when they awoke. The sleep had done them good, but they were overpoweringly thirsty—so thirsty that the thought of food without drink was nauseating. The evening milking was going on; they could hear the rattle of the streams of milk into the pails, in the intervals of harsh voices. Then the cows were turned out and heavy feet stamped away.

"They should all be out of the way pretty soon," Desmond whispered. "Then we can make a move. We must get to water somehow, or——" He broke off, listening. "Lie still!" he added quickly. "Some one is coming up for straw."

"How do you know?"

"'Tis a young lady, and she volunteering to see to bedding for the pigs!" Desmond answered.

The ladder creaked, and, peering out, they saw a shock yellow head rise into the trap-door. The girl who came up was about twenty—stoutly built, with a broad, good-humoured face. She wore rough clothes, and but for her two thick plaits of yellow hair, might easily have passed for a man.

The heavy steps came slowly across the floor, while the men lay trying to breath so softly that no unusual movement should stir the loose pea-straw. Then, to their amazement, she spoke.

"Where are you?" she said in English.

Astonishment as well as fear held them silent. She waited a moment, and spoke again.

"I saw you come in. You need not be afraid."

Still they made no sign. She gave a short laugh.

"Well, if you will not answer, I must at least get my straw for my pigs."

She stooped, and her great arms sent the loose stalks flying in every direction. Desmond and Jim sat up and looked at her in silence.

"You don't seem to want to be killed," Desmond said. "But assuredly you will be, if you raise an alarm."

The girl laughed.

"I could have done that all day, if I had wished," she said. "Ever since I saw you run in when I put up my window this morning."

"Well—what do you want? Money?"

"No." She shook her head. "I do not want anything. I was brought up in England, and I think this is a silly war. There is a bucket of milk for you downstairs; it will come up if one of you will pull the string you will find tied to the top of the ladder." She laughed. "If I go to get it you will think I am going to call for help."

Jim was beyond prudence at the moment. He took three strides to the ladder, found the cord, and pulled up a small bucket, three parts full of new milk. The girl sat down on an empty oil-drum and watched them drink.

"So! You are thirsty, indeed," she said. "Now I have food."

She unearthed from a huge pocket a package of bread and sausage.

"Now you can eat. It is quite safe, and you could not leave yet; my uncle is still wandering about. He is like most men; they wander about and are very busy, but they never do any work. I run the farm, and get no wages, either. But in England I got wages. In Clapham. That is the place of all others which I prefer."

"Do you, indeed?" Desmond said, staring at this amazing female. "But why did you leave Clapham?"

"My father came back to fight. He knew all about the war; he left England two months before it began. I did not wish to leave. I desired to remain, earning good wages. But my father would not permit me."

"And where is he now?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not know. Fighting: killed, perhaps. But my uncle graciously offered me a home, and here am I. I do the work of three men, and I am—how did we say it in Clapham?—bored stiff for England. I wish this silly old war would end, so that I could return."

"We're trying to return without waiting for it to end," said Jim solemnly. "Only I'd like to know how you knew what we were."

"But what else could you be? It is so funny how you put on these clothes, like the ostrich, and think no one will guess who you are. If you wore his suit of feathers you would still look like British officers and nothing else."

"You're encouraging," said Desmond grimly. "I hope all your nation won't be as discerning."

"Ach—they!" said the girl. "They see no farther than their noses. I, too, was like that before I went to Clapham."

"It's a pleasant spot," said Desmond. "I don't wonder you improved there. But all the same, you are German, aren't you? I don't quite see why you want to befriend us." He took a satisfying mouthful of sausage. "But I'm glad you do."

"In England I am—well, pretty German," said his fair hostess. "The boys in Clapham, they call me Polly Sauer Kraut. And I talk of the Fatherland, and sing 'Die Wacht am Rhein.' Oh yes. But when I come back here and work for my so economical uncle on this beastly farm, then I remember Clapham and I do not feel German at all. I cannot help it. But if I said so, I would skinned be, very quickly. So I say 'Gott Strafe England!' But that is only eyewash!"

"Well, we'll think kindly of one German woman, anyhow," said Desmond. "The last of your charming sisters I met was a Red Cross nurse at a station where our train pulled up when I was going through, wounded. I asked her for a glass of water, and she brought it to me all right—only just as she gave it to me she spat in it. I've been a woman-hater ever since, until I met you." He lifted the bucket, and looked at her over its rim. "Here's your very good health, Miss Polly Sauer Kraut, and may I meet you in Clapham!"

The girl beamed.

"Oh, I will be there," she said confidently. "I have money in the Bank in London: I will have a little baker shop, and you will get such pastry as the English cannot make."

Jim laughed.

"And then you will be pretty German again!"

"I do not know." She shook her head. "No, I think I will just be Swiss. They will not know the difference in Clapham. And I do not think they will want Germans back. Of course, the Germans will go—but they will call themselves Swiss, Poles, any old thing. Just at first, until the English forget: the English always forget, you know."

"If they forget all they've got to remember over this business—well then, they deserve to get the Germans back," said Desmond, grimly. "Always excepting yourself, Miss Polly. You'd be an ornament to whichever nation you happened to favour at the moment." He finished the last remnant of his sausage. "That was uncommonly good, thank you. Now, don't you think we could make a move?"

"I will see if my uncle is safely in. Then I will whistle." She ran down the ladder, and presently they heard a low call, and going down, found her awaiting them in the cow-shed.

"He is at his supper, so all is quite safe," she said. "Now you had better take the third road to the right, and keep straight on. It is not so direct as the main road, but that would lead you through several places where the police are very active—and there is a reward for you, you know!" She laughed, her white teeth flashing in the dim shed. "Good-bye; and when I come back to Clapham you will come and take tea at my little shop."

"We'll come and make you the fashion, Miss Polly," said Desmond. "Thank you a thousand times." They swung off into the dusk.



CHAPTER XVII

LIGHTS OUT

"There was two of every single thing in the Ark," said Geoffrey firmly. "The man in Church read it out of the Bible."

"Two Teddy-bears?" asked Alison.

"No; Teddies are only toys. There was real bears, though."

"Meat ones?" asked his sister hopefully.

"Yes. And all the other nanimals."

"Who drived 'em in?"

"Ole Noah and Mrs. Noah. Mustn't they have had a time! If you tried to drive in our turkeys an sheep and cows together there'd be awful trouble—and Noah had lions and tigers and snakes too."

"Perhaps he had good sheep-dogs," Norah suggested. She was sewing with Mrs. Hunt under a tree on the lawn, while the children played with a Noah's Ark on a short-legged table near them.

"He'd need them," Geoffrey said. "But would sheep-dogs be any good at driving snakes and porklepines, Norah?"

"Noah's might have been," Norah answered prudently. "They must have been used to it, you see. And I believe a good sheep-dog would get used to anything."

"Funny things ole Noah and his fam'ly wore," said Geoffrey, looking at Japhet with disfavour. "Like dressing-gowns, only worse. Wouldn't have been much good for looking after nanimals in. Why, even the Land Army girls wear trousers now!"

"Well, fashions were different then," said Mrs. Hunt. "Perhaps, too, they took off the dressing-gowns when they got inside the Ark, and had trousers underneath."

"Where'd they keep all the food for the nanimals, anyhow?" Geoffrey demanded. "They'd want such a lot, and it would have to be all different sorts of food. Tigers wouldn't eat vegi-tubbles, like rabbits."

"And efalunts would eat buns," said Alison anxiously. "Did Mrs. Noah make vem buns?"

"She couldn't, silly, unless she had a gas-stove," said Geoffrey. "They couldn't carry firewood as well. I say, Mother, don't you think the Ark must have had a supply-ship following round, like the Navy has?"

"It isn't mentioned," said Mrs. Hunt.

"I say!" said Geoffrey, struck by a new idea that put aside the question of supply. "Just fancy if a submarine had torpedoed the Ark! Wouldn't it have been exciting!"

"Let's do it in the bath," said Alison, delightedly.

"All right," Geoffrey said. "May we, Mother?"

"Oh, yes, if you don't get too wet," his mother said resignedly. "They can all swim, that's a comfort.

"We'll muster them," said Geoffrey, bundling the animals into a heap. "Hand over that bird, Alison. I say, Mother, which came first, a fowl or an egg?"

Mrs. Hunt sighed.

"It isn't mentioned," she said. "Which do you think?"

"Fowl, I 'specs," answered her son.

"I fink it was ve egg," said Alison.

"How would it be hatched if it was, silly?" demanded her brother. "They didn't have ink-ink-inklebaters then."

Alison puckered her brows, and remained undefeated.

"P'raps Adam sat on it," she suggested.

"I cannot imagine Adam being broody," said Mrs. Hunt.

"Well, anyhow, he hatched out Eve!" said Geoffrey. No one ventured to combat this statement, and the children formed themselves into a stretcher party, bearing the Ark and its contents upon a tray in the direction of the bathroom.

"Aren't they darlings?" Norah said, laughing. "Look at that Michael!"

Michael was toddling behind the stretcher-party as fast as his fat legs would permit, uttering short and sharp shrieks of anguish lest he should be forgotten. Geoffrey gave the order, "Halt!" and the Ark and its bearers came to a standstill.

"Come along, kid," said the commanding officer. "You can be the band." The procession was re-formed with Michael in the lead, tooting proudly on an imaginary bugle. They disappeared within the house.

"They are growing so big and strong," said Mrs. Hunt thankfully. "Michael can't wear any of the things that fitted Geoff at his age; as for Alison, nothing seems to fit her for more than a month or two; then she gracefully bursts out of her garments! As for Geoff——! But he is getting really too independent: he went off by himself to the village yesterday, and I found him playing football behind one of the cottages with a lot of small boys."

"Oh—did you?" Norah said, looking a little worried. "We heard just before I came over this morning that there is a case of fever in the village—some travelling tinker-people seem to have brought it. Dad said I must tell you we had better not let the children go down there for the present."

"There were some gipsy-looking boys among the crowd that Geoff was playing with," Mrs. Hunt said anxiously. "I do hope he hasn't run any risk. He is wearing the same clothes, too—I'll take them off him, and have them washed." She gathered up her sewing hurriedly. "But I think Geoff is strong enough now to resist any germ."

"Oh, of course he is," Norah answered. "Still, it doesn't do any harm to take precautions. I'll come and help you, Mrs. Hunt."

Geoffrey, congenially employed as a submarine commander about to torpedo the Ark, was distinctly annoyed at being reduced to a mere small boy, and an unclad one at that.

"I don't see why you want to undress me in the middle of the morning," he said, wriggling out of his blue jersey. "And it isn't washing-day, either, and Alison and Michael'll go and sink the Ark without me if you don't hurry."

"I won't let them, Geoff," Norah reassured him. "I'm an airship commander cruising round over the submarine, and she doesn't dare to show so much as the tip of her periscope. Of course, when her captain comes back, he'll know what to do!"

"Rather!" said the Captain, wriggling this time in ecstasy. "I'll just put up my anti-aircraft gun and blow the old airship to smithereens."

Alison uttered a howl.

"Won't have Norah made into smivvereens!"

"Don't you worry darling, I'll dodge," said Norah.

"Michael, what are you doing with Mrs. Noah?"

"Not want my dear 'ickle Mrs. Noah dwowned," said Michael, concealing the lady yet more securely in his tiny pocket. "She good. Michael loves her."

"Oh, rubbish, Michael! put her back in the Ark," said Geoffrey wrathfully. "However can we have a proper submarining if you go and collar half the things?"

"Never collared nuffig," said Michael, unmoved. "Only tooked my dear 'ickle Mrs. Noah."

"Never mind Geoff—he's only a small boy," Mrs. Hunt said.

"Isn't a small boy!" protested Michael furiously. "Daddy said I was 'normous."

"So you are, best-beloved," laughed Norah, catching him up. "Now the submarine commander has on clean clothes, and you'd better get ready to go on duty." Geoffrey dashed back to the bath with a shout of defiance to the airship, and the destruction of the Ark proceeded gaily.

"There!" said Mrs. Hunt, putting Geoffrey's garments into a tub. "It's just as well to have them washed, but I really don't think there's any need to worry."

"I don't think you need, indeed!" said Norah, laughing, as a medley of sound came from the bathroom.

It was an "off" day for Norah. With Miss de Lisle she had potted and preserved every variety of food that would lend itself to such treatment, and now the working season was almost over. For the first time the Home for Tired People had not many inmates, owing to the fact that leave had been stopped for several men at the Front who had arranged to spend their holiday at Homewood. They had with them an elderly colonel and his wife; Harry Trevor and another Australian; a silent Major who played golf every hour of daylight, and read golf literature during the other part of the day; and a couple of sappers, on final leave after recovering from wounds. To-day the Colonel and his wife had gone up to London; the others, with the exception of Major Mackay, who, as usual, might be seen afar upon the links, had gone with Mr. Linton to a sale where he hoped to secure some unusually desirable pigs; the sappers, happy in ignorance, promised themselves much enjoyment in driving them home. Left alone, therefore, Norah had gone for the day to Mrs. Hunt, ostensibly to improve her French and needlework, but in reality to play with the babies. Just how much the Hunt babies had helped her only Norah herself knew.

"I'm asked to a festivity the day after to-morrow," Mrs. Hunt said that afternoon. They were having tea in the pleasant sitting-room of the cottage; sounds from the kitchen indicated that Eva was giving her celebrated performance of a grizzly bear for the benefit of the children. The performance always ended with a hunt, and with the slaying of the quarry by Geoffrey, after which the bear expired with lingering and unpleasant details. "Douglas's Colonel is in London on leave, and he and his wife have asked me to dine and go to a theatre afterwards. It would mean staying in London that night, of course."

"So of course you'll go?"

"I should love to go," Mrs. Hunt admitted. "It would be jolly in itself, and then I should hear something about Douglas; and all he ever tells me about himself might be put on a field postcard. If the babies are quite well, Norah, do you think you would mind taking charge?"

Norah laughed. She had occasionally come to sleep at the cottage during a brief absence on Mrs. Hunt's part, and liked nothing better.

"I should love to come," she said. "But you'd better not put it that way, or Eva will be dreadfully injured."

"I don't—to Eva," smiled Mrs. Hunt. "She thinks you come over in case she should need any one to run an errand, and therefore permits herself to adore you. In fact, she told me yesterday, that for a young lady you had an uncommon amount of sense!"

"Jim would have said that was as good as a diploma," Norah said, laughing.

"I rather think so, myself," Mrs. Hunt answered. "What about Wally, Norah? Have you heard lately?"

"Yesterday," Norah replied. "He decorated his letter with beautiful people using pen-wipers, so I suppose he is near Ypres. He says he's very fit. But the fighting seems very stiff. I'm not happy about Wally."

"Do you think he isn't well?"

"I don't think his mind is well," said Norah. "He was better here, before he went back, but now that he is out again I believe he just can't bear being without Jim. He can't think of him happily, as we do; he only fights his trouble, and hates himself for being alive. He doesn't say so in words, but when you know Wally as well as Dad and I do, you can tell form his letters. He used to write such cheery, funny letters, and now he deliberately tries to be funny—and it's pretty terrible."

She paused, and suddenly a little sob came. Mrs. Hunt stroked her hand, saying nothing.

"Do you know," Norah said presently, "I think we have lost Wally more than Jim. Jim died, but the real Jim is ever close in our hearts, and we never let him go, and we can talk and laugh about him, just as if he was here. But the real Wally seems to have died altogether, and we've only the shell left. Something in him died when he saw Jim killed. Mrs. Hunt—do you think he'll ever be better?"

"I think he will," Mrs. Hunt said. "He is too fine and plucky to be always like this. You have to remember that he is only a boy, and that he had the most terrible shock that could come to him. It must take time to recover."

"I know," Norah said. "I tried to think like that—but it hurts so, that one can't help him. We would do anything to make him feel better."

"And you will, in time. Remember, you and your father are more to him than any one else in the world. Make him feel you want him; I think nothing else can help him so much." Mrs. Hunt's eyes were full of tears. "He was such a merry lad—it breaks one's heart to think of him as he is."

"He was always the cheerfullest person I ever saw," said Norah. "He just laughed through everything. I remember once when he was bitten by a snake, and it was hours before we could get a doctor. We were nearly mad with anxiety, and he was in horrible pain with the tourniquet, but he joked through it all in the most ridiculous way. And he was always so eager. It's the last thing you could call him now. All the spring has gone out of him."

"It will come back," Mrs. Hunt said. "Only keep on trying—let him see how much he means to you."

"Well, he's all we have left," said Norah. There was silence for a moment; and then it was a relief when the children burst into the room.

They all went to the station two days later to see Mrs. Hunt off for her excursion. Michael was not to be depended upon to remain brave when a train actually bore his mother away, so they did not wait to see her go; there were errands to be done in the village, and Norah bundled them all into the governess-cart, giving Geoffrey the reins, to his huge delight. He turned his merry face to his mother.

"Good-bye, darling! Take care of yourself in London Town!"

"I will," said his mother. "Mind you take care of all the family. You're in charge, you know, Geoff."

"Rather!" he said. "I'm G.O.C., and they've got to do what I tell them, haven't they? And Mother—tell the Colonel to send Father home."

"Then you won't be G.O.C.," said Norah.

"Don't want to be, if Father comes," said Geoffrey, his eyes dancing. "You'll tell him, won't you, Mother?"

"Indeed I will," she said. "Now, off you go. Don't put the cart into the ditch, Geoff!"

"Isn't you insulting," said her son loftily. "But womens don't understand!" He elevated his nose—and then relented to fling her kisses as the pony trotted off. Mrs. Hunt stood at the station entrance to watch him for a moment—sitting very straight and stiff, holding his whip at the precise angle taught by Jones. It was such a heartsome sight that the incoming train took her by surprise, and she had barely time to get her ticket and rush for a carriage.

Norah and her charges found so much to do in the village that when they reached home it was time for Michael's morning sleep. Eva brooked no interference with her right of tucking him up for this period of peace, but graciously permitted Norah to inspect the process and kiss the rosy cheek peeping from the blankets. Then Alison and Geoffrey accompanied her to the house, and visited Miss de Lisle in her kitchen, finding her by a curious chance, just removing from the oven a batch of tiny cakes of bewildering attractions. Norah lost them afterwards, and going to look for them, was guided by sound to Allenby's pantry, where that most correct of butlers was found on his hands and knees, being fiercely ridden by both his visitors, when it was very pleasant to behold Allenby's frantic endeavours to get to his feet before Norah should discover him, and yet to avoid upsetting his riders. Then they called upon Mr. Linton in his study, but finding him for once inaccessible, being submerged beneath accounts and cheque-books, they fell back upon the billiard-room, where Harry Trevor and Bob McGrath, his chum, welcomed them with open arms, and romped with them until it was time for Norah to take them home to dinner.

"Awful jolly kids," said Harry. "Why don't you keep them here for lunch, Norah?"

"Eva would be terribly hurt," said Norah. "She always cooks everything they like best when Mrs. Hunt is away—quite regardless of their digestions."

"Well, can't they come back afterwards? Let's all go for a walk somewhere."

"Oh, do!" pleaded Geoffrey. "Could we go to the river, Norah?"

"Yes, of course," said Norah. "Will it be too far for Alison, though?"

"Not it—she walked there with Father when he was home last time. Do let's."

"Then we must hurry," said Norah. "Come along, or Eva will think we have deserted her."

They found Eva slightly truculent.

"I was wonderin' was you stayin' over there to dinner," she said. "I know I ain't one of your fine lady cooks with a nime out of the 'Family 'Erald,' but there ain't no 'arm in that there potato pie, for all that!"

"It looks beautiful," said Norah, regarding the brown pie affectionately. "I'm so glad I'm here for lunch. What does Michael have, Eva?"

"Michael 'as fish—an' 'e 'as it out in the kitchen with me," said Eva firmly. "An' 'is own little baby custid-puddin'. No one but me ever cooks anythink for that kid. Well, of course, you send 'im cakes an' things," she added grudgingly.

"Oh, but they're not nourishment," said Norah with tact.

"No," said Eva brightening. "That's wot I says. An' nourishment is wot counts, ain't it?"

"Oh, rather!" Norah said. "And isn't he a credit to you! Well, come on, children—I want pie!" She drew Alison's high chair to the table, while Eva, departing to the kitchen, relieved her feelings with a burst of song.

They spent a merry afternoon at the river—a little stream which went gurgling over pebbly shallows, widening now and then into a broad pool, or hurrying over miniature rapids where brown trout lurked. Harry and Bob, like most Australian soldiers in England, were themselves only children when they had the chance of playing with babies; they romped in the grass with them, swung them on low-growing boughs, or skimmed stones across placid pools, until the sun grew low in the west, and they came back across the park. Norah wheeled Michael in a tiny car; Bob carried Alison, and presently Geoffrey admitted that his legs were tired, and was glad to ride home astride Harry's broad shoulders. Mr. Linton came out to meet them, and they all went back to the cottage, where Eva had tea ready and was slightly aggrieved because her scones had cooled.

"Now, you must all go home," Norah told her men-folk, after tea. "It's late, and I have to bath three people."

"Don't we see you again?" Harry asked.

"You may come over to-night if you like—Dad is coming," Norah said. "Geoff, you haven't finished, have you?"

"I don't think I'm very hungry," Geoffrey said. "May I go and shut up my guinea-pigs?"

"Yes, of course. Alison darling, I don't think you ought to have any more cakes."

"I always has free-four-'leven when mother is at home," said Alison firmly, annexing a chocolate cake and digging her little white teeth into it in the hope of averting any further argument. "Michael doesn't want more, he had Geoff's."

"Geoff's? But didn't Geoff eat any?"

"Geoff's silly to-night," said his sister. "Fancy not bein' hungry when there was choc'lit cakes!"

"I hope he didn't get too tired," Norah said to herself anxiously. "I'll hurry up and get them all to bed."

She bathed Michael and Alison, with Eva in attendance, and tucked them up. They were very sleepy—too sleepy to be troubled that Mother was not there to kiss them good night; indeed, as Norah bent over Michael, he thought she was his mother, and murmured, "Mum-mum," in the dusk in a little contented voice. Norah put her cheek down to the rose-leaf one for a moment, and then hurried out.

"Geoff! Where are you, Geoff?"

"I'm here," said Geoffrey, from the back doorstep. He rose and came towards her slowly. Something in his face made her vaguely uneasy.

"Ready for bed, old chap?" she asked. "Come on—are you tired?"

"My legs are tired," Geoffrey said. "And my head's queer. It keeps turning round." He put out a little appealing hand, and Norah took it in her own. It was burning hot.

"I—I wish Mother was home," the boy said.

Norah sat down and took him on her knee. He put his head against her.

"You must just let old Norah look after you until Mother comes back," she said gently. The memory of the fever in the village came to her, and she turned sick with fear. For a moment she thought desperately of what she must do both for Geoffrey and for the other children.

"I won't bath Master Geoff; he is tired," she said to Eva. She carried the little fellow into his room and slipped off his clothes; he turned in the cool sheets thankfully.

"Lie still, old man; I'll be back in a moment," Norah said. She went out and called to Eva, reflecting with relief that the girl's hard Cockney sense was not likely to fail her.

"Eva," she said, "I'm afraid Master Geoff is ill. You know there is fever in the village, and I think he has it. I mustn't go near any one, because I've been looking after him. Run over to the house and tell Mr. Linton I would like him to come over—as quickly as possible. Don't frighten him."

"Right-oh!" said Eva. "I won't be 'arf a tick."

Her flying feet thudded across the grass as Norah went back to the room where Geoffrey was already sleeping heavily. She looked down at the little face, flushed and dry; in her heart an agony of dread for the Mother, away at her party in London. Then she went outside to wait for her father.

He came quickly, accompanied by Miss de Lisle and Harry Trevor.

"I telephoned for the doctor directly I got your message," he said. "He'll be up in a few minutes."

"Thank goodness!" said Norah. "Of course it may not be the fever. But it's something queer."

"The little chap wasn't all right down at the river," Harry said. "Only he kept going; he's such a plucky kid. But he sat jolly quiet on me coming home."

"I knew he was quiet; I just thought he was a bit tired," Norah said. "I say, Daddy, what about the other children?"

"What about you?" he asked. His voice was hard with anxiety.

"Me?" said Norah, staring. "Why, of course I must stay with him, Dad. He's in my charge."

"Yes, I suppose you must," said David Linton heavily. "We'll find out from the doctor what precautions can be taken."

"Oh, I'll be all right," Norah said. "But Alison and Michael mustn't stay here."

"No, of course not. Well, they must only come to us."

"But the Tired People?" Norah asked.

Miss de Lisle interposed.

"There are hardly any now—and two of the boys go away to-morrow," she said. "The south wing could be kept entirely for the children, couldn't it, Mr. Linton? Katty could look after them there—they are fond of her."

"That's excellent," said Mr. Linton. "I really think the risk to the house wouldn't be much. Any of the Tired People who were worried would simply have to go away. But the children would not come near any of them; and, please goodness, they won't develop fever at all."

"Then I'll go back and have a room prepared," Miss de Lisle said; "and then I'll get you, Mr. Harry, to help me bundle them up and carry them over. We mustn't leave them in this place a minute longer than we can help. That lovely fat Michael!" murmured Miss de Lisle incoherently. She hurried away.

There was a hum of an approaching motor presently, and the doctor's car came up the drive. Dr. Hall, a middle-aged and over-worked man, looked over Geoffrey quickly, and nodded to himself, as he tucked his thermometer under the boy's arm. Geoffrey scarcely stirred in his heavy sleep.

"Fever of course," said the doctor presently, out in the hall. "No, I can't say yet whether he'll be bad or not, Miss Norah. We'll do our best not to let him be bad. Mrs. Hunt away, is she? Well, I'll send you up a nurse. Luckily I've a good one free—and she will bring medicines and will know all I want done." He nodded approval of their plans for Alison and Michael. Mr. Linton accompanied him to his car.

"Get your daughter away as soon as you can," the doctor said. "It's a beastly species of fever; I'd like to hang those tinkers. The child in the village died this afternoon."

"You don't say so!" Mr. Linton exclaimed.

"Yes; very bad case from the first. Fine boy, too—but they didn't call me in time. Well, this village had forgotten all about fever." He jumped into the car. "I'll be up in the morning," he said; and whirred off into the darkness.

Alison and Michael, enormously amused at what they took to be a new game, were presently bundled up in blankets and carried across to Homewood; and soon a cab trundled up with a brisk, capable-looking nurse, who at once took command in Geoffrey's room.

"I don't think you should stay," she said to Norah. "The maid and I can do everything for him—and his mother will be home to-morrow. A good hot bath, with some disinfectant in it, here; then leave all your clothes here that you've worn near the patient, and run home in fresh things. No risk for you then."

"I couldn't leave Geoff," Norah said. "Of course I won't interfere with you; but his mother left him to me while she was away. And he might ask for me."

"Well, it's only for your own sake I was advising you," said the nurse. "What do you think, Mr. Linton?"

"I think she ought to stay," said David Linton shortly—with fear tugging at his heart as he spoke. "Just make her take precautions, if there are any; but the child comes first—he was left in our care."

He went away soon, holding Norah very tightly to him for a moment; and then the nurse sent Norah to bed.

"There's nothing for you to do," she said. "I shall have a sleep near the patient."

"But you'll call me if he wants me?"

"Yes—I promise. Now be off with you."

At the moment Norah did not feel as though she could possibly sleep; but very soon her eyes grew heavy and she dozed off to dream, as she often dreamed, that she and Jim were riding over the Far Plain at Billabong, bringing in a mob of wild young bullocks. The cattle had never learned to drive, and broke back constantly towards the shelter of the timber behind them. There was one big red beast, in particular, that would not go quietly; she had half a dozen gallops after him in her dream with Bosun under her swinging and turning with every movement of the bullocks, and finally heading him, wheeling him, and galloping him back to the mob. Then another broke away, and Jim shouted to her, across the paddock.

"Norah! Norah!"

She woke with a start. A voice was calling her name, hoarsely; she groped for her dressing-gown and slippers, and ran to Geoffrey's room. The nurse, also in her dressing-gown, was bending over the bed.

"You're quick," she said approvingly. "He only called you once. Take this, now, sonnie."

"Norah!"

She bent down to him, taking the hot hand.

"I'm here, Geoff, old man. Take your medicine."

"All right," said Geoffrey. He gulped it down obediently and lay back. "Will Mother come?"

"Very soon now," Norah said. "You know she had to be in London—just for one night. She'll be back to-morrow."

"It's nearly to-morrow, now," the nurse said. "Not far off morning."

"That's nice!" the child said. "Stay with me, Norah."

"Of course I will, old man. Just shut your eyes and go to sleep; I won't go away."

She knelt by his bed, patting him gently, until his deep breaths told that sleep had come to him again. The nurse touched her shoulder and pointed to the door; she got up softly and went out, looking through her open window at the first streaks of dawn in the east. Her dream was still vivid in her mind; even over her anxiety for the child in her care came the thought of it, and the feeling that Jim was very near now.

"Jim!" she whispered, gazing at the brightening sky.

In Germany, at that moment, two hunted men were facing dawn—running wildly, in dread of the coming daylight. But of that Norah knew nothing. The Jim she saw was the big, clean-limbed boy with whom she had ridden so often at Billabong. It seemed to her that his laughing face looked at her from the rose and gold of the eastern sky.

Then Geoffrey turned, and called to her, and she went to him swiftly.

*****

It was four days later.

"Mother." Geoffrey's voice was only a thread of sound now. "Will Father come?"

"I have sent for him, little son. He will come if he can."

"That's nice. Where's Norah?"

"I'm here, sweetheart." Norah took the wasted hand in hers, holding it gently. "Try to go to sleep."

"Don't go away," Geoffrey murmured. "I'm awful sleepy." He half turned, nestling his head into his mother's arm. Across the bed the mother's haggard eyes met Norah's. But hope had almost died from them.

"If he lives through the night there's a chance," the doctor said to David Linton. "But he's very weak, poor little chap. An awful pity; such a jolly kid, too. And all through two abominable families of tinkers! However, there are no fresh cases."

"Can you do nothing more for Geoffrey?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I've done all that can be done. If his strength holds out there is a bare chance."

"Would it be any good to get in another nurse?" Mr. Linton asked. "I'm afraid of the mother and Norah breaking down."

"If they do, we shall have to get some one else," the doctor answered. "But they wouldn't leave him; neither of them has had any sleep to speak of since the boy was taken ill. Norah is as bad as Mrs. Hunt; the nurse says that even if they are asleep they hear Geoffrey if he whispers. I'll come again after a while, Mr. Linton."

He hurried away, and David Linton went softly into the little thatched cottage. Dusk was stealing into Geoffrey's room; the blind fluttered gently in the evening breeze. Mrs. Hunt was standing by the window looking down at the boy, who lay sleeping, one hand in that of Norah, who knelt by the bed. She smiled up at her father. Mrs. Hunt came softly across the room and drew him out into the passage.

"He may be better if he sleeps," she said. "He has hardly had any real sleep since he was taken ill."

"Poor little man!" David Linton's voice was very gentle. "He's putting up a good fight, Mrs. Hunt."

"Oh, he's so good!" The mother's eyes filled with tears. "He does everything we tell him—you know he fought us a bit at first, and then we told him he was on parade and we were the officers, and he has done everything in soldier-fashion since. I think he even tried to take his medicine smartly—until he grew too weak. But he never sleeps more than a few moments unless he can feel one of us; it doesn't seem to matter whether it's Norah or me."

Geoffrey stirred, and they heard Norah's low voice.

"Go to sleep, old chap; it's 'Lights Out,' you know. You mustn't wake up until Reveille."

"Has 'Last Post' gone?" Geoffrey asked feebly.

"Oh yes. All the camp is going to sleep."

"Is Father?"

"Yes. Now you must go to sleep with him, the whole night long."

"Stay close," Geoffrey whispered. His weak little fingers drew her hand against his face. Then no sound came but fitful breathing.

The dark filled the little room. Presently the nurse crept in with a shaded lamp and touched Norah's shoulder.

"You could get up," she whispered.

Norah shook her head, pointing to the thin fingers curled in her palm.

"I'm all right," she murmured back.

They came and went in the room from time to time; the mother, holding her breath as she looked down at the quiet face; the nurse, with her keen, professional gaze; after a while the doctor stood for a long time behind her, not moving. Then he bent down to her.

"Sure you're all right?"

Norah nodded. Presently he crept out; and soon the nurse came and sat down near the window.

"Mrs. Hunt has gone to sleep," she whispered as she passed.

Norah was vaguely thankful for that. But nothing was very clear to her except Geoffrey's face; neither the slow passing of the hours nor her own cramped position that gradually became pain. Geoffrey's face, and the light breathing that grew harder and harder to bear. Fear came and knelt beside her in the stillness, and the night crept on.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE WATCH ON THE RHINE

Evening was closing upon a waste of muddy flats. Far as the eye could see there was no rise in the land; it lay level to the skyline, with here and there a glint of still water, and, further off, flat banks between which a wide river flowed sluggishly. If you cared to follow the river, you came at length to stone blockhouses, near which sentries patrolled the banks—and would probably have turned you back rudely. From the blockhouses a high fence of barbed wire, thickly criss-crossed, stretched north and south until it became a mere thread of grey stretching over the country. There was something relentless, forbidding, in that savage fence. It was the German frontier. Beyond it lay Holland, flat and peaceful. But more securely than a mountain range between the two countries, that thin grey fence barred the way.

If you turned back from the sentries and followed the muddy path along the river bank, you were scarcely likely to meet any one. The guards in the blockhouses were under strict discipline, and were not encouraged to allow friends to visit them, either from the scattered farms or from the town of Emmerich, where lights were beginning to glimmer faintly in the twilight. It was not safe for them to disregard regulations, since at any moment a patrol motor-launch might come shooting down the river, or a surprise visit be paid by a detachment from the battalion of infantry quartered, for training purposes, at Emmerich. Penalties for lax discipline were severe; the guards were supposed to live on the alert both by day and by night, and the Emmerich commandant considered that the fewer distractions permitted to the sentries, the more likely they were to make their watch a thorough one. There had been too many escapes of prisoners of war across the frontier; unpleasant remarks had been made from Berlin, and the Commandant was on his mettle. Therefore the river-bank was purposely lonely, and any stray figure on it was likely to attract attention.

A mile from the northern bank a windmill loomed dark against the horizon; a round brick building, like a big pepper-castor, with four great arms looking like crossed combs. A rough track led to it from the main road. Within, the building was divided into several floors, lit by narrow windows. The heavy sails had plied lazily during the day; now they had been secured, and two men were coming down the ladder that led from the top. On the ground floor they paused, looking discontentedly at some barrels that were ranged against the wall, loosely covered with sacking.

"Those accursed barrels are leaking again," one said, in German. "Look!" He pointed to a dark stain spreading from below. "And Rudolf told me he had caulked them thoroughly."

"Rudolf does nothing thoroughly—do you not know that?" answered his companion scornfully. "If one stands over him—well and good; if not, then all that Master Rudolf cares for is how soon he may get back to his beerhouse. Well, they must be seen to in the morning; it is too late to begin the job to-night."

"I am in no hurry," said the first man. "If you would help me I would attend to them now. All the stuff may not be wasted."

"Himmel! I am not going to begin work again at this hour," answered the other with a laugh. "I am not like Rudolf, but I see no enjoyment in working overtime; it will be dark, as it is, before we get to Emmerich. Come on, my friend."

"You are a lazy fellow, Emil," rejoined the first man. "However, the loss is not ours, after all, and we should be paid nothing extra for doing the work to-night. Have you the key?"

"I do not forget it two nights running," returned Emil. "What luck it was that the master did not come to-day!—if he had found the mill open I should certainly have paid dearly."

"Luck for you, indeed," said his companion. They went out, shutting and locking the heavy oaken door behind them. Then they took the track that led to the main road.

The sound of their footsteps had scarcely died away when the sacking over one of the barrels became convulsed by an internal disturbance and fell to the floor; and Jim Linton's head popped up in the opening, like a Jack-in-the box.

"Come on, Desmond—they've gone at last!" he whispered.

Desmond's head came up cautiously from another barrel.

"Take care—it may be only a blind," he warned. "They may come back at any moment."

Jim's answer was to wriggle himself out of his narrow prison, slowly and painfully. He reached the floor, and stood stretching himself.

"If they come back, I'll meet them with my hands free," he said. "Come on, old man; we're like rats in a trap if they catch us in those beastly tubs. At least, out here, we've our knives and our fists. Come out, and get the stiffness out of your limbs."

"Well, I suppose we may as well go under fighting if we have to," Desmond agreed.

Jim helped him out, and they stood looking at each other. They were a sorry-looking pair. Their clothes hung in rags about them; they were barefoot and hatless, and, beyond all belief, dirty. Thin to emaciation, their gaunt limbs and hollow cheeks spoke of terrible privations; but their sunken eyes burned fiercely, and there was grim purpose in their set lips.

"Well—we're out of the small traps, but it seems to me we're caught pretty securely in a big one," Desmond said presently. "How on earth are we going to get out of this pepper-pot?"

"We'll explore," Jim said. Suddenly his eye fell on a package lying on an empty box, and he sprang towards it, tearing it open with claw-like fingers.

"Oh, by Jove—food!" he said.

They fell upon it ravenously; coarse food left by one of the men, whose beer-drinking of the night before had perhaps been too heavy to leave him with much appetite next day. But, coarse as it was, it was life to the two men who devoured it.

It was nearly six weeks since the night when their tunnel had taken them into the world outside the barbed wire of their prison; six weeks during which it had seemed, in Desmond's phrase, as though they had escaped from a small trap to find themselves caught within a big one. They had been weeks of dodging and hiding; travelling by night, trusting to map and compass and the stars; lying by day in woods, in ditches, under haystacks—in any hole or corner that should shelter them in a world that seemed full of cruel eyes looking ceaselessly for them. Backwards and forwards they had been driven; making a few miles, and then forced to retreat for many; thrown out of their course, often lost hopelessly, falling from one danger into another. They had never known what it was to sleep peacefully; their food had been chiefly turnips, stolen from the fields, and eaten raw.

Three times they had reached the frontier; only to be seen by the guards, fired upon—a bullet had clipped Jim's ear—and forced to turn back as the only alternative to capture. What that turning-back had meant no one but the men who endured it could ever know. Each time swift pursuit had nearly discovered them; they had once saved themselves by lying for a whole day and part of a night in a pond, with only their faces above water in a clump of reeds.

They had long abandoned their original objective; the point they had aimed at on the frontier was far too strongly guarded, and after two attempts to get through, they had given it up as hopeless, and had struck towards the Rhine, in faint expectation of finding a boat, and perhaps being able to slip through the sentries. They had reached the river two nights before, but only to realize that their hope was vain; no boats were to be seen, and the frowning blockhouses barred the way relentlessly. So they had struck north, again trying to pierce the frontier; and the night before had encountered sentries—not men alone, but bloodhounds. The guards had contented themselves with firing a few volleys—the dogs had pursued them savagely. One Jim had succeeded in killing with his knife, the other, thrown off the trail for a little by a stream down which they had waded, had tracked them down, until, almost exhausted, they had dashed in through the open door of the old mill—for once careless as to any human beings who might be there.

The bloodhound had come, too, and in the mill, lit by shafts of moonlight through the narrow windows, they had turned to bay. The fight had not lasted long; they were quick and desperate, and the dog had paid the penalty of his sins—or of the sins of the human brutes who had trained him. Then they had looked for concealment, finding none in the mill—the floors were bare, except for the great barrels, half-full of a brown liquid that they could not define.

"Well, there's nothing for it," Jim had said. "There's not an inch of cover outside, and daylight will soon be here. We must empty two of these things and get inside."

"And the dog?" Desmond had asked.

"Oh, we'll pickle Ponto."

Together they had managed it, though the barrels taxed all their strength to move. The body of the bloodhound had been lowered into the brown liquid; two of the others had been gradually emptied upon the earthen floor. With the daylight they had crawled in, drawing the sacking over them, to crouch, half-stifled through the long day, trembling when a step came near, clenching their knives with a sick resolve to sell their freedom dearly. It seemed incredible that they had not been discovered; and now the package of food was the last stroke of good luck.

"Well, blessings on Emil, or Fritz, or Ludwig, or whoever he was," Jim said, eating luxuriously. "This is the best blow-out I've had since—well, there isn't any since, there never was anything so good before!"

"Never," agreed Desmond. "By George, I thought we were done when that energetic gentleman wanted to begin overhauling the casks."

"Me too," said Jim. "Emil saved us there—good luck to him!"

They finished the last tiny crumb, and stood up.

"I'm a different man," Desmond said. "If I have to run to-night, then the man that tries to catch me will have to do it with a bullet!"

"That's likely enough," Jim said, laughing. "Well, come and see how we're going to get out."

There seemed little enough chance, as they searched from floor to floor. The great door was strong enough to resist ten men; the windows were only slits, far too narrow to allow them to pass through, even had they dared risk the noise of breaking their thick glass. Up and up they went, their hearts sinking as their bodies mounted; seeing no possible way of leaving their round prison.

"Rats in a trap!" said Desmond. "There's nothing for it but those beastly barrels again—and to watch our chance of settling Emil and his pal when they come to-morrow."

"Let's look out here," Jim said.

They were at the top of the mill, in a little circular place, barely large enough for them to stand upright. A low door opened upon a tiny platform with a railing, from which the great sails could be worked; they were back now, but the wind was rising, and they creaked and strained at their mooring rope. Far below the silver sheet of the Rhine moved sluggishly, gleaming in the moonlight. The blockhouses stood out sharply on either bank.

"Wonder if they can see us as plainly as we see them," Jim said.

"We'll have callers here presently if they can," Desmond said. "That, at least, is certain. Better come in, Jim."

Jim was looking at the great sails, and then at the rope that moored them.

"Wait half a minute," he said.

He dived into the mill, and returned almost instantly with a small coil of rope.

"I noticed this when we came up," he said. "It didn't seem long enough to be any use by itself, but if we tie it to this mooring-rope it might be long enough."

"To reach the ground from here?" Desmond asked him in astonishment. "Never! You're dreaming, Jim."

"Not from here, of course," Jim said. "But from the end of the sail."

"The sail!" Desmond echoed.

"If we tie it to the end of the sail's rope, and let the mill go, we can swing out one at a time," Jim said. "Bit of a drop at the bottom, of course, but I don't think it would be too much, if we wait till our sail points straight down."

"But——" Desmond hesitated. "The sail may not bear any weight—neither may the rope itself."

"The ropes seem good enough—they're light, but strong," Jim said. "As for the sail—well, it looks pretty tough; the framework is iron. We can haul on it and test it a bit. I'd sooner risk it than be caught here, old man."

"Well—I'm going first," Desmond said.

"That you're not—it's my own little patent idea," Jim retorted. "Just you play fair, you old reprobate. Look—they keep a sort of boathook thing here, to catch the rope when the arm is turning—very thoughtful and handy. You'll easily get it back with that."

He was knotting the two ropes as he spoke, testing them with all his strength.

"There—that will hold," he said. "Now we'll let her go."

He untied the mooring-rope, and very slowly the great sails began to revolve. They tugged violently as the arm bearing the rope mounted, and drew it back; it creaked and groaned, but the rope held, and nothing gave way. Jim turned his face to Desmond on the narrow platform.

"I'm off!" he said. "No end of a jolly lark, isn't it? Hold her till I get on the railing."

"Jim—if it's too short!"

"Well, I'll know all about that in a minute," said Jim with a short laugh. "So long, old chap: I'll be waiting below, to catch you when you bounce!"

He flung his legs over the railing, sitting upon it for an instant while he gripped the rope, twining his legs round it. Then he dropped off, sliding quickly down. Sick with suspense, Desmond leaned over to watch him.

Down—down he went. The mill-arms rose for a moment, and then checked as his weight came on them—and slowly—slowly, the great sail from which he dangled came back until it pointed straight downwards, with the clinging figure hanging far below. Down, until the man above could scarcely see him—and then the rope, released, suddenly sprang into the air, and the sails mounted, revolving as if to make up for lost time. On the grass below a figure capered madly. A low, triumphant whistle came up.

"Oh, thank God!" said Desmond. He clutched the boathook and leaned out, finding that his hands trembled so that the sails went round three times before he managed to catch the dangling rope. Then it was only a moment before he was on the grass beside Jim. They grinned at each other.

"You all right?" Jim asked.

"Oh, yes. It was pretty beastly seeing you go, though."

"It was only a ten-foot drop at the end," said Jim, casting his eye up at the creaking sails. "But it certainly was a nasty moment while one wondered if the old affair would hold. I don't believe it ever was made in Germany—it's too well done!"

"Well, praise the pigs we haven't got to tackle those barrels again!" Desmond said. "Come along—we'll try and find a hole in the old fence."

They came out of the friendly shadow of the mill and trotted northwards, bending low as they ran; there was no cover on the flats, and the moonlight was all too clear, although friendly clouds darkened it from time to time. It was a windy night, with promise of rain before morning.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

The sharp German words rang out suddenly. Before them three soldiers seemed to have risen from the ground with levelled rifles.

Jim and Desmond gave a despairing gasp, and turned, ducking and twisting as they fled. Bullets whistled past them.

"Are you hit?" Jim called.

"No. Are you?"

"No. There's nothing but the river."

They raced on madly, their bare feet making no sound. Behind them the pursuit thudded, and occasionally a rifle cracked; not so much in the hope of hitting the twisting fugitives, as to warn the river sentries of their coming. The Germans were not hurrying; there was no escape, they knew! Father Rhine and his guardians would take care of their quarry.

Jim jogged up beside Desmond.

"We've just a chance," he said—"if we ever get to the river. You can swim under water?"

"Oh yes."

"Then keep as close to the bank as you can—the shots may go over you. We'll get as near the blockhouses as we dare before we dive. Keep close."

He was the better runner, and he drew ahead, Desmond hard at his heels. The broad river gleamed in front—there were men with rifles silhouetted against its silver. Then a merciful cloud-bank drifted across the moon, and the shots whistled harmlessly in the sudden darkness. Jim felt the edge of the bank under his feet.

"Dive!" he called softly.

He went in gently and Desmond followed with a splash. The sluggish water was like velvet; the tide took them gently on, while they swam madly below the surface.

Shouts ran up and down the banks. Searchlights from the blockhouses lit the river, and the water was churned under a hail of machine-gun bullets, with every guard letting off his rifle into the stream in the hope of hitting something. The bombardment lasted for five minutes, and then the officer in command gave the signal to cease fire.

"The pity is," he observed, "that we never get the bodies; the current sees to that. But the swine will hardly float back to their England!" He shrugged his shoulders. "That being settled, suppose we return to supper?"

It might have hindered the worthy captain's enjoyment had he been able to see a mud-bank fifty yards below the frontier, where two dripping men looked at each other, and laughed, and cried, and wrung each other's hands, and, in general, behaved like people bereft of reason.

"Haven't got a scratch, have you, you old blighter?" asked Jim ecstatically.

"Not one. Rotten machine-gun practice, wasn't it? Sure you're all right?"

"Rather! Do you realize you're in Holland?"

"Do you realize that no beastly Hun can come up out of nowhere and take pot-shots at you?"

"It's not their pot-shots I minded so much," said Jim. "But to go back to a prison-camp—well, shooting would be a joke to that. Oh, by Jove, isn't it gorgeous!" They pumped hands again.

"Now, look here—we've got to be sober," Desmond said presently. "Holland is all very well; I've heard it's a nice place for skating. But neither of us has any wish to get interned here."

"Rather not!" said Jim. "I want to go home and get into uniform again, and go hunting for Huns."

"Same here," said Desmond. "Therefore we will sneak along this river until we find a boat. Go steady now, young Linton, and don't turn hand springs!"

Within the Dutch frontier the Rhine breaks up into a delta of navigable streams, on which little brown-sailed cargo-boats ply perpetually; and the skipper of a Dutch cargo-boat will do anything for money. A couple of hours' hard walking brought Jim and Desmond to a village with a little pier near which half a dozen boats were moored. A light showed in a port-hole, and they went softly on deck, and found their way below into a tiny and malodorous cabin. A stout man sprang to his feet at sight of the dripping scarecrows who invaded his privacy.

South Africa had taught Desmond sufficient Dutch to enable him to make himself intelligible. He explained the position briefly to the mariner, and they talked at length.

"Wants a stiff figure," he said finally, turning to Jim. "But he says 'can do.' He'll get us some clothes and drop down the river with us to Rotterdam, and find a skipper who'll get us across to Harwich—the German navy permitting, of course!"

"The German navy!" said Jim scornfully. "But they're asleep!" He yawned hugely. "I'm going to sleep, too, if I have to camp on the gentleman's table. Tell him to call me when it's time to change for Blighty!"



CHAPTER XIX

REVEILLE

It was not yet dawn when David Linton, fully dressed, came into the cottage garden. The door stood open, and he kicked off his shoes and crept into the house.

Eva sat on the floor of the passage with her head in her hands. She looked up with a start as the big man came in, and scrambled to her feet; a queer dishevelled figure with her tousled head and crumpled cap and apron. A wave of dismay swept over Mr. Linton.

"Is he——?" he whispered, and stopped.

The girl beckoned him into the sitting-room.

"'E's never stirred all night," she whispered. "I dunno if 'e isn't dead; I never see any one lie so still. The nurse wouldn't sit there like a wooden image if 'e was dead, would she, sir?"

"Surely not," said David Linton. "Where is Miss Norah?"

"Kneelin' alongside of 'im, same like she was when you was here. She ain't never stirred, neither. An' I'll bet a dollar she must be stiff!"

"And Mrs. Hunt?"

"She's in there, wiv 'em. She 'ad a little sleep; not much. No one's said one word in this 'ouse all night."

"Why didn't you go to bed?" David Linton said, looking down at the pinched old face and the stooping shoulders. He had never noticed Eva very much; now he felt a sudden wave of pity for the little London servant. She loved Geoffrey too in her queer way.

"Not me!" said Eva defiantly. "And 'im very near dyin'. I been boilin' the kettle every hour or so, but none of 'em came out for tea. Will you 'ave a cup, sir?"

A refusal was on his lips, but he changed his mind.

"Thank you," he said gently. "And have one yourself, Eva."

"My word, I'll be glad of it," she said. "It's bitter cold, sittin' out there." She tip-toed off to the kitchen. Mr. Linton stood, hesitating, for a moment, and then went along the passage. A screen blocked Geoffrey's doorway, and he peeped over it.

As he did so, Mrs. Hunt moved to the end of the bed. Geoffrey lay exactly as he had been on the night before; so utterly still that it was impossible to say whether he were alive or dead. Norah crouched beside him, her hand still against his face.

Then, very slowly, Geoffrey turned, and opened his eyes.

"Mother!" he said. "Mother, I'm so thirsty!"

Mrs. Hunt was beside him as his eyelids had lifted. The nurse, moving swiftly, handed her a little cup.

"Drink this, sweetheart." The mother raised his head, and Geoffrey drank eagerly.

"That's awful nice," he said. "May I have some more?"

They gave him more, and put him back on the pillow. He looked at Norah, who knelt by him silently.

"Wake up, old Norah—it's Reveille!" he said.

She smiled at him, and put her face on his, but she did not stir. Suddenly the nurse saw Mr. Linton, and beckoned to him.

"Carry her—she can't move."

Norah felt her father's arm about her.

"Hold round my neck, dear," he said.

The nurse was at her other side. They raised her slowly, while she clenched her teeth to keep back any sound that should tell of the agony of moving—still smiling with her eyes on Geoffrey's sleepy face. Then, suddenly, she grew limp in her father's arm.

"Fainted," murmured the nurse. "And a very good thing." She put her arm round her, and they carried her out between them, and put her on a sofa.

"I must go back to Geoffrey," the nurse said. "Rub her—rub her knees hard, before she comes to. It's going to hurt her, poor child!" She hurried away.

Geoffrey was lying quietly, his mother's head close to him. The nurse put her hand on his brow.

"Nice and cool," she said. "You're a very good boy, Geoff; we'll think about some breakfast for you presently." Mrs. Hunt raised her white face, and the nurse's professional calmness wavered a little. She patted her shoulder.

"There—there, my dear!" she said. "He's going to do very well. Don't you worry. He'll be teaching me to ride that pony before we know where we are." She busied herself about the boy with deft touches. "Now just keep very quiet—put Mother to sleep, if you like, for she's a tired old mother." She hastened back to Norah.

"Is she all right?" David Linton's voice was sharp with anxiety. "She has never moved."

"The best thing for her," said the nurse, putting him aside and beginning to massage this new patient. "If I can rub some of the stiffness away before she becomes conscious it will save her a lot. Run away, there's a dear man, and tell that poor soul in the kitchen that the child is all right."

"He will live?"

"Rather! That sleep has taken every trace of the fever away. He's weak, of course, but we can deal with that when there's no temperature. Tell Eva to make tea—lots of it. We all want it."

"Thus it was that presently might have been seen the astounding spectacle of a grizzled Australian squatter and a little Cockney serving-maid holding each other's hands in a back kitchen.

"I knew it was orright when I 'eard you comin' down the 'all," said Eva tearfully. "No one's 'ad that sort of a step in this 'ouse since Master Geoff went sick. The dear lamb! Won't it be 'evinly to see 'is muddy boot-marks on me clean floor agin! An' him comin' to me kitching window an' askin' me for grub! I'll 'ave tea in a jiffy, sir. An' please 'scuse me for ketchin' old of you like that, but I'd 'ave bust if I 'adn't 'eld on to somefink!"

Geoffrey dropped off to sleep again, presently, and Mrs. Hunt came to Norah, who was conscious, and extremely stiff, but otherwise too happy to care for aches and pains. They did not speak at first, those two had gone down to the borderland of Death to bring back little, wandering feet; only they looked at each other, and clung together, still trembling, though only the shadow of fear remained.

After that Geoffrey mended rapidly, and, having been saintlike when very ill, became just an ordinary little sinner in his convalescence, and taxed every one's patience to keep him amused. Alison and Michael, who were anxiously watched for developing symptoms, refused to develop anything at all, remaining in the rudest health; so that they were presently given the run of all Homewood, and assisted greatly in preventing any of the Tired People from feeling dull.

Norah remained at the cottage, which was placed strictly in quarantine, and played with Geoffrey through the slow days of weakness that the little fellow found so hard to understand. Aids to convalescence came from every quarter. Major Hunt, unable to leave France, sent parcels of such toys and books as could still be bought in half-ruined towns. Wally, who had been given four days' leave in Paris—which bored him to death—sent truly amazing packages, and the Tired People vied with David Linton in ransacking London for gifts for the sick-room. Geoffrey thought them all very kind, and would have given everything for one hour on Brecon beside Mr. Linton.

"You'll be able to ride soon, old chap," Norah said, on his first afternoon out of bed.

"Will I?" The boy looked scornfully at his thin legs. "Look at them—they're like silly sticks!"

"Yes, but Brecon won't mind that. And they'll get quite fat again. Well, not fat—" as Geoffrey showed symptoms of horror—"but hard and fit, like they were before. Quite useful."

"I do hope so," Geoffrey said. "I want them to be all right before Father comes—and Wally. Will Wally come soon, do you think?"

"I'm afraid not: you see, he has been to Paris. There's hardly any leave to England now."

"'Praps leave will be open by Christmas," Geoffrey suggested hopefully. "Wouldn't it be a lovely Christmas if Father and Wally both came?"

"Wouldn't it just?" Norah smiled at him; but the smile faded in a moment, and she walked to the window and stood looking out. Christmas had always been such a perfect time in their lives: she looked back to years when it had always meant a season of welcoming Jim back; when every day for weeks beforehand had been gay with preparations for his return from school. Jim would arrive with his trunks bulging with surprises for Christmas morning; Wally would be with him, both keen and eager for every detail in the life of the homestead, just as ready to work as to play. All Billabong, from the Chinese gardener to Mr. Linton, hummed with the joy of their coming. Now, for the first time, Christmas would bring them nothing of Jim.

She felt suddenly old and tired; and the feeling grew in the weeks that followed, while Geoffrey gradually came back to strength and merriment, and the cottage, after a strenuous period of disinfecting, emerged from the ban of quarantine. Alison and Michael had a rapturous reunion with their mother and Geoffrey, and Homewood grew strangely quiet without the patter of their feet. Norah returned to her post as housekeeper, to find little to do; the house seemed to run on oiled wheels, and Miss de Lisle and the servants united in trying to save her trouble.

"I dunno is it the fever she have on her," said Katty in the kitchen one evening. "She's that quiet and pale-looking you wouldn't know her for the same gerrl."

"Oh, there's no fear of fever now," said Miss de Lisle.

"Well, she is not right. Is it fretting she is, after Masther Jim? She was that brave at first, you'd not have said there was any one dead at all."

"I think she's tired out," said Miss de Lisle. "She has been under great strain ever since the news of Mr. Jim came. And she is only a child. She can't go through all that and finish up by nursing a fever patient—and then avoid paying for it."

"She cannot, indeed," said Katty. "Why wouldn't the Masther take her away for a change? Indeed, it's himself looks bad enough these times, as well. We'll have the two of them ill on us if they don't take care."

"They might go," said Miss de Lisle thoughtfully. "I'll suggest it to Mr. Linton."

David Linton, indeed, would have done anything to bring back the colour to Norah's cheeks and the light into her eyes. But when he suggested going away she shrank from it pitifully.

"Ah, no, Daddy. I'm quite well, truly."

"Indeed you're not," he said. "Look at the way you never eat anything!"

"Oh, I'll eat ever so much," said Norah eagerly. "Only don't go away: we have work here, and we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves anywhere else. Perhaps some time, when Wally comes home, if he cares to go we might think about it. But not now, Daddy." She hesitated. "Unless, of course, you want to very much."

"Not unless you do," he said. "Only get well, my girl."

"I'm quite all right," protested Norah. "It was only Geoff's illness that made me a bit slack. And we've had a busy summer, haven't we? I think our little war-job hasn't turned out too badly, Dad."

"Not too badly at all—if it hasn't been too much for my housekeeper," he said, looking at her keenly. "Remember, I won't have her knocked up."

"I won't be, Daddy dear—I promise," Norah said.

She made a brave effort to keep his mind at ease as the days went on; riding and walking with him, forcing herself to sing as she went about the house—she had her reward in the look in the silent man's eyes when he first heard a song on her lips—and entering with a good imitation of her old energy into the plans for the next year on the farm. But it was all imitation, and in his heart David Linton knew it. The old Norah was gone. He could only pity her with all his big heart, and help her in her struggle—knowing well that it was for his sake. In his mind he began to plan their return to Australia, in the hope that Billabong would prove a tonic to her tired mind and body. And yet—how could they face Billabong, without Jim?

He came out on the terrace one evening with a letter in his hand.

"Norah," he said. "I've good news for you—Wally is coming home."

"Is he, Dad? On leave?"

"Well—he has been wounded, but not seriously. They have been nursing him in a hospital at Boulogne and he writes that he is better, but he is to have a fortnight's leave."

"It will be lovely to have him," Norah said. "May I see the letter, Dad?"

"Of course." He gave it to her. "Poor old Wally! We must give him a good time, Norah."

"It's a pity Harry's leave didn't happen at the same time," said Norah. "However, Phil will be a mate for him; they like each other awfully."

"Yes," agreed her father. "Still, I don't think Wally wants any other mate when you are about."

"They were always astonishingly good in the way they overlooked my bad taste in being a girl!" said Norah, with a laugh. She was running her eye over the letter. "Oh—hit in the shoulder. I do hope it wasn't a very painful wound—poor old boy. I wonder will he be able to ride, Dad?"

"He says he's very well. But then, he would," Mr. Linton said. "Since we first knew him Wally would never admit so much as a finger-ache if he could possibly avoid it. I expect he'll ride if it's humanly possible!"

Allenby came out.

"Hawkins would like to see you, sir."

"Very well," said his master. "By the way, Allenby, Mr. Wally is coming back on leave."

The butler's face brightened.

"Is he indeed, sir! That's good news."

"Yes—he has been wounded, but he's all right."

"Miss de Lisle will certainly invent a new dish in his honour, sir," said Allenby, laughing. "Is he coming soon?"

"This week, he says. Well, I mustn't keep Hawkins waiting." He went into the house, with Allenby at his heels. It was evident that the kitchen would hear the news as quickly as the ex-sergeant could get there.

Norah read the letter over again, slowly, and folded it up. Then she turned from the house, and went slowly across the lawn. At the sweep of the drive there was a path that made a short cut across the park to a stile, and her feet turned into it half-unconsciously.

The dull apathy that had clogged her brain for weeks was suddenly gone. She felt no pleasure in the prospect that would once have been so joyful, of seeing Wally. Instead her whole being was seething with a wild revolt. Wally's coming had always meant Jim. Now he would come alone, and Jim could never come again.

"It isn't fair!" she said to herself, over and over. "It isn't fair!"

She came to the stile, and paused, looking over it into a quiet lane. All her passionate hunger for Jim rose within her, choking her. She had kept him close to her at first; lately he had slipped away so that she had no longer the dear comfort of his unseen presence that had helped her through the summer. And she wanted him—wanted him. Her tired mind and body cried for him; always chum and mate and brother in one. She put her head down on the railing with a dry sob.

A quick step brushed through the crisp leaves carpeting the lane. She looked up. A man in rough clothes was coming towards her.

Norah drew back, wishing she had brought the dogs with her; the place was lonely, and the evening was closing in. She turned to go; and as she did so the man broke into a clear whistle that made her pause, catching her breath. It was the marching tune of Jim's regiment; but beyond the tune itself there was something familiar in the whistle—something that brought her back to the stile, panting, catching at the rail with her hands. Was there any one else in the world with that whistle—with that long, free stride?

He came nearer, and saw her for the first time—a white-faced girl who stood and stared at him with eyes that dared not believe—with lips that tried to speak his name, and could not. It was Jim who sobbed as he spoke.

"Norah! Norah!"

He flung himself over the stile and caught her to him.

"Old mate!" he said. "Dear little old mate!"

They clung together like children. Presently Norah put up her hand, feeling the rough serge of his coat.

"It isn't a dream," she said. "Tell me it isn't, Jimmy-boy. Don't let me wake up."

Jim's laugh was very tender.

"I'm no dream," he said. "All these months have been the dream—and you can wake up now."

She shivered, putting her face against him.

"Oh—it's been so long!"

Then, suddenly, she caught his hand.

"Come!" she said breathlessly. "Come quickly—to Dad!"

They ran across the park, hand in hand. Near the house Jim paused.

"I say, old chap, we can't take him by surprise," he said. "I was going to sneak in by the back door, and get hold of Miss de Lisle and Allenby, to tell you. Hadn't you better go and prepare him a bit?"

"Yes, of course," Norah said. "There's a light in the study: he's always there at this time. Come in and I'll hide you in Allenby's pantry until I ring."

They crept in by a side door, and immediately ran into the butler.

"How are you, Allenby?" Jim inquired pleasantly.

Allenby staggered back.

"It's Mr. Jim!" he gasped, turning white.

"It is," said Jim, laughing. He found the butler's hand, and shook it. Norah left them, and went swiftly to her father's study. She opened the door softly.

David Linton was sitting in a big armchair by the fire, bending forward and looking into the red coals. The light fell on his face, and showed it old and sad with a depth of sadness that even Norah had hardly seen. He raised his head as the door opened.

"Hallo, my girl," he said, forcing a smile. "I was just beginning to wonder where you were."

"I went across the park," Norah said nervously. Something in her voice made her father look sharply at her.

"Is anything the matter, Norah?"

"No," she said quickly. She came close to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You look as if you had seen a ghost," he said. "What is it, Norah?"

"I—I thought I had, too," she stammered. "But it was better than a ghost. Daddy—Daddy!" she broke down, clinging to him, laughing and crying.

"What is it?" cried David Linton. "For God's sake tell me, Norah!" He sprang to his feet, shaking.

"He's here," she said. "He isn't dead." Suddenly she broke from him and ran to the bell. "Jim," she said; "Jim has come back to us, Daddy."

The door was flung open, and Jim came in, with great strides.

"Dad!"

"My boy!" said his father. They gripped each other's hands; and Norah clung to them both, and sobbed and laughed all at once.

"Let me sit down, children," said David Linton presently; and they saw that he was trembling. "I'm getting an old man, Jim; I didn't know how old I was, until we lost you."

"You couldn't get old if you tried," said Jim proudly. "And you can't lose me either—can he, Norah?" They drew together again; it seemed complete happiness just to touch each other—not to speak; to be together. Afterwards there would be explanations; but they seemed the last thing that mattered now.

They did not hear the hoot of a motor in the drive or a ring at the front door. Allenby answered it, and admitted a tall subaltern.

"Mr. Wally!"

"Evening, Allenby," said Wally. "I believe I'm a bit ahead of time—I didn't expect to get here so soon. Do you think they'll have a corner for me?"

Allenby laughed—a rather quavering laugh.

"I think you'll always find your room ready, sir," he said. "You—I suppose you 'aven't 'eard our good news, sir?"

"I never hear good news," said Wally shortly. "What is it?"

Allenby eyed him doubtfully.

"I don't know as I oughtn't to break it to you a bit, sir," he said. "You can't be over-strong yet, and you wounded, and all; and never 'aving rightly got over losing Mr. Jim, and——"

Wally shuddered.

"For Heaven's sake, man, stop breaking it gently!" he said. "What is it?" In his voice was the crisp tone of the officer; and the ex-sergeant came to attention smartly.

"It's Mr. Jim, sir," he said. "'E's 'ome."

For a long moment Wally stared at him.

"You're not mad, I suppose?" he said slowly. "Or perhaps I am. Do you mean——"

"Them 'Uns couldn't kill him, sir!" Allenby's voice rose on a note of triumph. "Let me take your coat, sir—'e's in the study. And you coming just puts the top on everything, sir!"

He reached up for Wally's coat. But the boy broke from him and ran blindly to the study, bursting in upon the group by the fire. There he stopped dead, and stared at them.

"Old chap!" said Jim. He sprang to him, and flung an arm round his shoulders. Then he gave a great sigh of utter contentment, and echoed Allenby unconsciously.

"Well, if that doesn't make everything just perfect!" he said.



CHAPTER XX

ALL CLEAR

"Kiddie, are you awake?"

"Come in, Jimmy."

Norah sat up in bed and felt for the electric switch. The room sprang into light as Jim came in.

"I had to come and bring your stocking," he said. "Merry Christmas, little chap."

"Merry Christmas, Jimmy dear." Norah looked at the bulging stocking on her bed, and broke into laughter. "And you a full-blown Captain! Oh, Jimmy, are you ever going to grow up?"

"I trust not," said Jim comfortably—"if it means getting any bigger than I am. But you're not, either, so it doesn't matter. Do you remember all the Christmases at Billabong when I had to bring you your stocking?"

"Do I remember!" echoed Norah scornfully. "But at Billabong it was daylight at four o'clock in the morning, and extremely hot—probably with a bush-fire or two thrown in. You'll be frozen to death here. Turn on the electric stove, and we'll be comfy."

"That's a brain-wave," said Jim, complying. "I must admit I prefer an open fireplace and three-foot logs—but in a hurry those little contraptions of stoves are handy. Hold on now—I'll get you something to put over your shoulders."

"There's a woolly jacket over there," Norah said. "Let me have my property—I'm excited." She possessed herself of the stocking and fished for its contents. "Chocolates!—and in war-time! Aren't you ashamed?"

"Not much," said Jim calmly, extracting a huge chocolate from the box. "I lived on swede turnips for six weeks, so I think the family deserves a few extras. Fish some more."

Norah obeyed, and brought to light articles of a varied nature; a pair of silk stockings, a book on Housekeeping as a Science, a large turnip, artistically carved, a box of French candied fruit, a mob-cap and a pair of housemaids' gloves, and, lastly, the cap of a shell, neatly made into a pin-tray.

"I did that in camp in Germany," said Jim. "And I swore I'd put it into your Christmas stocking. Which I have done."

"Bless you," said Norah. "I would rather lose a good many of my possessions than that." They smiled at each other; and, being an undemonstrative pair, the smile was a caress.

"Isn't this going to be a Christmas!" Norah said. "I've been lying awake for ever so long, trying to realize it. You alive again——"

"I never was dead," said Jim indignantly.

"It was a horribly good imitation. And Wally here, and even Harry; and Major Hunt home; and Geoff getting stronger every day. And Dad grown twenty years younger."

"And you too, I guess—judging by what you looked like the night I came home."

"Oh, I've got turned and made up to look like new," said Norah. She faltered a little. "Jimmy, I've been saying my prayers—hard."

"I've done that, too," said Jim. There was a long, contented silence.

"And somehow, now, I know you'll be all right—both of you," Norah said. "I just feel certain about it. Before—ever since the war began—I was always horribly afraid, but now I'm not afraid any more. It can't last for ever; and some day we'll all go back."

"And that will be the best thing in the world," said Jim.

"The very best," she said.

Some one tapped at the door.

"May I come in?" asked Miss de Lisle's voice. She entered, bearing a little tray.

"You!" said Norah. "But you shouldn't."

"Bride and Katty have gone to church, so I thought I'd bring you some tea and wish you a merry Christmas," said Miss de Lisle. "But I didn't expect to find the Captain here." She did not wait for their greetings, but vanished with the elephantine swiftness peculiar to her; returning in a few moments with a second tray.

"And toast!" said Jim. "But where's your own, Miss de Lisle?"

"Never mind mine—I'll have it in the kitchen," said the cook-lady.

"Indeed, you will not. Sit down." He marched off, unheeding her protests. When he returned, he bore a large kitchen tray, with the teapot.

"It seemed simpler," he said. "And I couldn't find anything smaller. This cup is large, Miss de Lisle, but then you won't want it filled so often. Have some of my toast—I couldn't possibly eat all this."

"Well, it's very pleasant here," said the cook-lady, yielding meekly. "I took some to Mr. Wally, but he merely said, 'Get out, Judkins; I'm not on duty!' and rolled over. So I concluded, in Katty's words, that 'his resht was more to him,' and came away."

"He'll wake up presently and be very pleased to find it; it won't matter to him at all if it's stone-cold," said Jim. "Queer chap, Wal. I prefer tea with the chill off it, myself. Judkins has hard times getting him up in time for early parade. Luckily Judkins is an old regular soldier, and has a stern, calm way with a young officer."

"Who bullies you into getting up, may I ask?" demanded Miss de Lisle.

"I used to be bullied by a gentleman called Wilkes, in the grey days when I was a subaltern," said Jim sadly. "Now, alas, I am a responsible and dignified person, and I have to set an example." He sighed. "It's awful to be a captain!"

"It's so extraordinary," said his sister, "that I never get used to it."

"But you never had any respect for age," said Jim, removing her tray and putting a pillow on her head. "Every one finished? then I'll clear away the wreck and go and dress." He piled the three trays on top of each other and goose-stepped from the room solemnly—his long legs in pyjamas, under a military great coat, ending a curious effect to the spectacle. Miss de Lisle and Norah laughed helplessly.

"And a captain!" said the cook-lady, wiping her eyes. "Now I really must run, or there will be no breakfast in this house."

Breakfast was a movable feast in the Home for Tired People, who wandered in and out just as they felt inclined. Hot dishes sat on a hot-water plate and a little aluminium-topped table; such matters as ham and brawn lurked on a sideboard; and Allenby came in from time to time to replenish tea and coffee. Norah and her father rarely encountered any one but Phil Hardress at this meal, since theirs was generally over long before most of their guests had decided to get up. On this morning, however, every one was equally late, and food did not seem to matter; the table was "snowed under" with masses of letters and Christmas parcels, and as every one opened these and talked all at once, mingling greetings with exclamations over the contents of the packages, Miss de Lisle's efforts had been in vain.

"I pitied your post-lady," said Mrs. Aikman, the wife of a wounded colonel. "She staggered to the door under an enormous mail-bag, looking as though Christmas were anything but merry. However, I saw her departing, after an interval, with quite a sprightly step."

"Allenby had orders to look after her," Norah said, smiling. "Poor soul—she begins her round at some unearthly hour and she's hungry and tired by the time she gets here."

"One of the remarkable things about this country of yours," said Mr. Linton, "is the way you have continued to deliver parcels and letters as though there were no war. Strange females or gaunt children bring them to one's door, but the main point is that they do come. In Australia, even without a war, the post-office scorns to deliver a parcel; if any one is rash enough to send you one the post-office puts it in a cupboard and sends you a cold postcard to tell you to come and take it away. If you don't come soon, they send you a threatening card."

"And if you don't obey that?"

"I never dared to risk a third," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "I am a man of peace."

"But what a horrible system!" said Mrs. Aikman. "Doesn't it interfere with business?"

"Oh yes, greatly," said her host. "But I suppose we shall learn, in time."

"I'm going over to the cottage," Norah whispered to Jim. "Do come—Geoff won't think it's Christmas if you don't."

They went out into the hall. Flying feet came down the stairs, and Wally was upon them.

"Merry Christmas, Norah!" He seized both her hands and pranced her down the hall. "Always begin Christmas with a turkey-trot!" he chanted.

"Begin, indeed!" said Norah, with a fine contempt. "I began mine hours ago. Where have you been?"

"I have been—contemplating," said Wally, his brown eyes twinkling. "No one called me."

"There's evidence to the contrary," Jim said, grinning. "It has been stated that you called a perfectly blameless lady Judkins, and said awful things to her."

"My Aunt!" said Wally. "I hope not—unless you talk pretty straight to Judkins he doesn't notice you. That accounts for the frozen tea and toast I found; I thought Father Christmas had put 'em there."

"Did you eat them?"

"Oh, yes—you should never snub a saint!" said Wally. "So now I don't want any breakfast. Where are you two going?"

"To the cottage. Come along—but really, I do think you should eat a decent breakfast, Wally."

"It will be dinner-time before we know where we are—and I feel that Miss de Lisle's dinner will be no joke," said Wally. "So come along, old house mother, and don't worry your ancient head about me." Each boy seized one of Norah's hands and they raced across the lawn. David Linton, looking at them from the dining-room window, laughed a little.

"Bless them—they're all babies again!" he thought.

The cottage was echoing with strange sounds; it might be inferred that the stockings of the young Hunts had contained only bugles, trumpets and drums. Eva, sweeping the porch, greeted the newcomers with a friendly grin.

"Merry Christmas, Eva!"

"The sime to you," said Eva. "Ain't it a real cold morning? The frorst's got me fingers a fair treat."

"No one minds frost on Christmas Day—it's the proper thing in this queer country!" said Wally. "Was Father Christmas good to you, Eva?"

"Wasn't 'e! Not 'arf!" said Eva. "The children wouldn't 'ear of anyfink but 'angin' up a stockin' for me—and I'm blowed if it wasn't bang full this mornin'. And a post-card from me young man from the Front; it's that saucy I wonder 'ow it ever passed the sentry! Well, I do say as 'ow this place ain't brought us nuffink but luck!"

Geoffrey dashed out, equipped with a miniature Sam Brown belt with a sword, and waving a bugle.

"Look! Father Christmas brought them! Merry Christmas, everybody." He flung himself at Norah, with a mighty hug.

"And where's my Michael—and that Alison?" Norah asked. "Oh, Michael, darling, aren't you the lucky one!" as he appeared crowned with a paper cap and drawing a wooden engine. "Where's Alison?"

"It's no good ever speaking to Alison," Geoffrey said, with scorn. "She got a silly doll in her stocking, and all she'll do is to sit on the floor and take off its clothes. Girls are stupid—all 'cept you, Norah!"

"Keep up that belief, my son, and you'll be spared a heap of trouble," said Major Hunt, coming out. "Unfortunately, you're bound to change your mind. How are you all? We've had an awful morning!"

"It began at half-past four," Mrs. Hunt added. "At that hour Michael discovered a trumpet; and no one has been asleep since."

"They talk of noise at the Front!" said her husband. "Possibly I've got used to artillery preparation; anyhow, it strikes me as a small thing compared to my trio when they get going with assorted musical instruments. How is your small family, Miss Norah?"

"Not quite so noisy as yours—but still, you would notice they were there!" Norah answered, laughing. "They were all at breakfast when I left, and it seemed likely that breakfast would run on to dinner, unless they remembered that church is at eleven. I must run home; we just came to wish you all a merry Christmas. Dinner at half-past one, remember!"