"We won't forget," Mrs. Hunt said.

Every one was dining at Homewood, and dinner, for the sake of the children, was in the middle of the day. The house was full of guests; they trooped back from church across the park, where the ground rang hard as iron underfoot, for it was a frosty Christmas. Homewood glowed with colour and life—with big fires blazing everywhere, and holly and ivy scarlet and green against the dark oaken panelling of the walls. And if the Australians sent thoughts overseas to a red homestead—Billabong, nestling in its green of orchard and garden, with scorched yellow paddocks stretching away for miles around it—they were not homesick thoughts to-day. For home was in their hearts, and they were together once more.

The dinner was a simple one—Miss de Lisle had reserved her finest inspirations for the evening meal, regarding Christmas dinner as a mere affair of turkey and blazing plum-pudding, which, except in the matter of sauces, might be managed by any one. "It needs no soul!" she said. But no one found any fault, and at the end Colonel Aikman made a little speech of thanks to their hosts. "We all know they hate speeches made at them," he finished. "But Homewood is a blessed word to-day to fighting men."

"And their wives," said Mrs. Aikman.

"Yes—to people who came to it tired beyond expression; and went back forgetting weariness. In their names—in the names of all of us—we want to say 'Thank you.'"

David Linton stood up, looking down the long room, and last, at his son.

"We, who are the most thankful people in the world, I think, to-day," he said, "do not feel that you owe us any gratitude. Rather we owe it to all our Tired People—who helped us through our own share of what war can mean. And, apart from that, we never feel that the work is ours. We carry on for the sake of a dead man—a man who loved his country so keenly that to die for it was his highest happiness. We are only tools, glad of war-work so easy and pleasant as our guests make our job. But the work is John O'Neill's. So far as we can, we mean to make it live to his memory."

He paused. Norah, looking up at him, saw him through misty eyes.

"So—we know you'll think of us kindly after we have gone back to Australia," the deep voice went on. "There will be a welcome there, too, for any of you who come to see us. But when you remember Homewood, please do not think of it as ours. If that brave soul can look back—as he said he would, and as we are sure he does—then he is happy over every tired fighter who goes, rested, from his house. His only grief was that he could not fight himself. But his work in the war goes on; and as for us, we simply consider ourselves very lucky to be his instruments."

Again he paused.

"I don't think this is a day for drinking toasts," he said. "When we have won we can do that—but we have not won yet. But I will ask you all to drink to a brave man's memory—to John O'Neill."

The short afternoon drew quickly to dusk, and lights flashed out—to be discreetly veiled, lest wandering German aircraft should wish to drop bombs as Christmas presents. Norah and the boys had disappeared mysteriously after dinner, vanishing into the study. Presently Geoffrey came flying to his mother, with eager eyes.

"Mother! Father Christmas is here!"

"You don't say so!" said Mrs. Hunt, affecting extreme astonishment. "Where?"

"I saw him run along the hall and go into the study. He was real, Mother!"

"Of course he's real," Major Hunt said. "Do you think he's gone up the study chimney?"

Wally appeared in the doorway.

"Will the ladies and gentlemen kindly walk into the study?" he said solemnly. "We have a distinguished guest."

"There! I told you," said Geoffrey ecstatically. He tugged at his father's hand, capering.

In the study a great fir-tree towered to the ceiling; a Christmas-tree of the most beautiful description, gay with shining coloured globes and wax lights and paper lanterns; laden with mysterious packages in white paper, tied with ribbon of red, white and blue, and with other things about which there was no mystery—clockwork toys, field guns and ambulance wagons, and a big, splendid Red Cross nurse, difficult to consider a mere doll. Never was seen such a laden tree; it's branches groaned under the weight they bore. And beside it, who but Father Christmas, bowing and smiling with his eyes twinkling under bushy white eyebrows.

"Walk in, ladies and gentleman, walk in!" he said invitingly.

Wally frowned at him.

"That's not the way to talk," he said. "You aren't a shop-walker!" He inflicted a surreptitious kick upon the elderly saint.

"Hi, you blighter, that's my shin!" said Father Christmas wrathfully; a remark luckily unheard by the guests in the excitement of the moment.

All the household was there; Miss de Lisle beaming at Wally and very stately and handsome in blue silk; the servants, led by Allenby, with Con and Katty and Bride giggling with astonishment at a tree the like of which did not grow in Donegal.

"All mustered?" said Father Christmas. "Right oh! I mean, that is well. As you see, I've had no end of a time labouring in your behalf. But I love hard work!" (Interruption from Mr. Meadows, sounding like "I don't think!") "Being tired, I shall depute to my dear young friend here the task of removing the parcels from the tree." He tapped Wally severely on the head with his knuckles, and that hapless youth ejaculated, "Beast!". "You'll get thrown out, if you don't watch it!" said the saint severely. "Now—ladies first!"

He detached the Red Cross nurse from her bough and placed her in Alison's arms; and Alison, who had glued her eyes to her from the moment of entering the room, uttered a gasp, sat promptly upon the floor, and began an exhaustive examination of her charms, unheeding any further gifts. Under the onslaught of Wally and Harry the tree speedily became stripped of its burden; Father Christmas directing their labours in a voice that plainly had its training on the barrack-square. Eva watched him admiringly.

"Ain't the Captin a trick!" she murmured, hugging her parcels to her.

The last package came down, and Father Christmas slipped away, disappearing behind a screen with a flourish that revealed an immaculate brown leather gaiter under the cotton-wool snow bordering his red cloak; and presently Jim sauntered out, slightly flushed.

"Oh, you silly!" said Geoffrey. "Where ever have you been? You've missed ole Father Christmas!"

"I never did have any luck," Jim said dolefully.

"Never mind—he's left heaps and heaps of parcels for you. I'll help you open them," said Geoffrey kindly.

The gong summoned them to tea; and afterwards it was time to take the children home, happy and sleepy. Jim tossed Alison up on his shoulder, and, with Geoffrey clinging to his other hand, and Michael riding Wally pick-a-back, Norah and the boys escorted the Hunts back to the cottage.

"You're coming over again, of course?" Jim said. "We're going to dance to-night."

"Oh yes; we're getting a terribly frivolous old couple," said Mrs. Hunt, laughing. "But Christmas leave only comes once a year, especially when there's a war on!"

"I think she needs a rest-cure!" said her husband, knitting his brows over this remarkable statement. "Come in and lie down for awhile, or you won't be coherent at all by to-night; Eva and I will put the babies to bed."

"Can't I help?" Norah asked.

"No—you're off duty to-night. You've really no idea how handy I am!" said Major Hunt modestly.

"Then we'll see you later on," Norah said, disentangling Michael from her neck. "Good-night, Michael, darling; and all of you."

"We've had a lovely time!" Geoffrey said.

"I'm so glad," Norah said, smiling at him. The cottage-door closed, and they turned back.

"I've had a lovely time, too!" she said. "There never was such a Christmas!"

"Never!" Jim said. "I believe that five months in Germany was worth it."

"No!" said Wally sharply.

"No, it wasn't," Norah agreed. "But now—it helps one to forget."

They came slowly across the frozen lawn. Before them Homewood loomed up, little beams of warm light coming from its shuttered windows. Then the door opened wide, letting out a flood of radiance; and in it stood David Linton, looking out for them. They came into the path of light; Norah between the two tall lads. His voice was tender as he looked down at their glowing faces.

"It's cold," he said. "Come in to the fire, children."



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Notes: possible errors in original text that I have left intact and some notes on things that might look wrong but I think they are actually correct.

1) reading about," said Wally. "Do you remember, Jim, how old poor old -> the first old should probably be omitted

2) know I ain't one of your fine lady cooks with a nime out of the -> nime occurs elsewhere in the text as well and indicates an accent

3) and became extraordinarily skilful in the use of chisel and plane. -> skilful with one 'l' is valid British spelling

4) him to instal her before we get to Homewood on Thursday. Hawkins has -> instal with one 'l' is valid British spelling

THE END