CHAPTER I NEWS FROM INDIA

 
"DEAR me!" exclaimed Miss Basset; "oh, dear me! I was saying only yesterday that the whole world seemed topsy-turvy as the result of the war, but I never thought that this might happen! Oh, dear me!"
 
She was a gentle-faced maiden lady of nearly seventy, with soft brown eyes and silvery hair. As she spoke she glanced across the breakfast-table, at which she was presiding, at her brother, and then at the young folks—a girl and boy—who were seated facing each other. Having assured herself she had every one's attention, she proceeded—
 
"Really it is most upsetting! Though we have often said we should like to see Paul's little daughter, haven't we, John? It will be a great responsibility for us to have charge of her, but under the circumstances—"
 
"Had you not better let me know the contents of Paul's letter, my dear Ann?" interposed Mr. Basset, smiling.
 
He was a tall thin man, with stooping shoulders which made him look older than his sister, who was his senior by several years. Being of a retiring disposition, he lived a quiet life, spending most of his days in the pursuits he loved—the study of flowers and insects. The gardens surrounding his home—the Glen, a modern red brick residence, situated near the west country town of Midbury—were full of the choicest plants; and he was the possessor of one of the finest collections of moths and butterflies in England.
 
Miss Basset had kept house for her brother for many years, during which they had been very happy together. They were good, kind people, always ready to help any charitable cause which was brought to their notice; but they lived rather narrow lives, and made few new acquaintances.
 
Six years previously Mr. Basset had been left trustee to two orphan children—May and Donald Rae—who had then come to live at the Glen. They were twins, twelve years of age, and were being educated by a daily governess.
 
Donald had been to a boarding-school at Exeter for some months; but, unfortunately, whilst playing football he had seriously injured his right knee. He had been laid up for weeks, and was still obliged to walk with a crutch. The doctors advised that he should be kept at home for the present, and had expressed the opinion that he would most likely be lame all his life.
 
Miss Basset passed the letter she had been reading to her brother. It was from their nephew, Paul Basset, their dead brother's only son, who was an officer in an Indian regiment. He was a widower, his young wife having died eighteen months after their marriage, leaving him with a baby girl whom he had kept with him in India. She was now eleven years of age.
 
"I see! I see!" murmured Mr. Basset, as, having read his nephew's letter, he folded it carefully, placed it in its envelope, and returned it to his sister. "Well, I suppose having Josephine here will not make much difference anyway, Ann?"
 
"I don't know about that," Miss Basset answered doubtfully; "it will depend upon what she is like, of course. An Indian-born child, accustomed to native servants, may not settle down comfortably in an English home. Dear me, I was saying only yesterday that we had no relative at the front, little thinking how soon our nearest and dearest would be there! Oh, dear me!"
 
"Is Captain Basset going to the front then?" asked Donald eagerly. He and his sister had been listening to their elders with growing curiosity.
 
Miss Basset assented, her eyes filling with tears as she did so; she wiped them hastily.
 
"And he is sending his little daughter to us in charge of a brother officer's wife who is going to Exeter," she explained; "he wants us to keep her till the end of the war. I do think—" turning to her brother— "that he should have consulted us, though, before making his plans."
 
"My dear Ann, don't you realize he had no time for anything but to act? His regiment was ordered immediately to the front, and he had to decide what to do with Josephine at once. He has paid us a compliment, I consider, in sending the child to us. It shows he realizes we shall do our best for her and try to make her happy. You noticed, I suppose, that he remarked she would probably be with us almost as soon as her letter? So we may expect her any time now."
 
"Then I must see about having a bedroom prepared for her," Miss Basset said, rising; "she shall have the one next mine, for it faces south and is very warm and cosy. If she is a nice child it will be pleasant for May. Poor little soul, I dare say she's in dreadful trouble about her father—because he's gone to the war, I mean. She may never see him again."
 
"Or he may live to win the Victoria Cross!" cried Donald, his eyes sparkling. Then, as Miss Basset left the room, he continued: "Oh, how I wish I was a man and able to enlist in the army! When I think of those poor Belgians fighting so bravely I long to be a few years older—but, there, my knee will prevent my ever being a soldier now, I suppose!"
 
"Never mind!" said May; "never mind, dear!"
 
"But I do mind!" the boy answered sharply, "so what's the good of your talking like that? Never mind, indeed!"
 
Mr. Basset had gone to the window, and was looking out into the garden where autumn flowers still lingered. He was paying no attention to the children, and presently he opened the window and stepped out into the October sunshine. There was silence in the breakfast-room for some minutes after he had gone. May felt snubbed, but she showed no resentment. She was naturally sweet-tempered and allowed Donald to treat her as he pleased. It would have been better for both of them, perhaps, if she had not. During the time he had been ill with his injured knee she had been his willing slave, and when he had vented his irritability upon her she had borne it without complaint.
 
"I wonder what Josephine will be like," she remarked presently, "and if we shall get on with her?"
 
"What's the good of wondering? I wish it was a boy who was coming instead of a girl!"
 
"I dare say you do. For your sake I wish so, too, dear."
 
"And I wish you wouldn't keep on calling me dear!" Donald exclaimed complainingly; "you have such an old-fashioned way of speaking, May, as though you were your own grandmother!"
 
May laughed, but she was secretly hurt. She moved to the window and watched her guardian pacing the garden paths. In a minute she cried—
 
"I hear a band! I believe the soldiers are coming! Let us go to the gate and watch them pass!"
 
There were several hundred recruits billeted in Midbury, and nearly every day they went for a long march. This morning, as they came to the big iron gate leading into the shrubbery which hid the Glen and its gardens from the high road, they found an elderly gentleman there with a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl, and a boy leaning on a crutch. They saluted them as they passed by.
 
"I seem to know the faces of some of them," remarked Mr. Basset, as the last line of khaki-clad figures disappeared from view.
 
"A lot of them are Midbury men," Donald answered. "How well they are marching!—much better than they did a week ago! Did you notice young Dicker, May?"
 
May nodded. Her face was flushed, and her eyes sparkling. She could not think why it was that the sounds of a military band and marching feet should always bring a lump into her throat.
 
"What Dicker is that?" inquired Mr. Basset. "Not the blacksmith's son? Yes? Why, he is an only child! I wonder his father let him join!"
 
"His father wouldn't have been very pleased if he hadn't," Donald answered quickly; "I managed to get as far as the blacksmith's yesterday, and had a talk with old Dicker. He was so proud to tell me that his boy had been the first man in Midbury to obey the call to arms. He says that after our duty to God comes our duty to our king and country. He's right, isn't he?"
 
"Yes, yes!" agreed Mr. Basset. "Old Dicker is a very fine fellow, straight as a line, and honest as the day, but I should have thought he was too peace-loving to have consented to his son being a soldier. I thought he hated war as much as I do."
 
"But you don't think it wrong to fight in a good cause?" questioned Donald eagerly.
 
"Certainly not, certainly not! It's the right thing to do—only people don't always do it."
 
"Then they're cowards!" declared the boy hotly.
 
Mr. Basset did not gainsay it. Hitherto the shadow of the war had not come very near him. He had subscribed to the hospital which was shortly to be opened in Midbury for wounded soldiers, as had his sister, and to various war funds; but until that morning it had not occurred to him, any more than it had to Miss Basset, that it might effect them personally. Now it seemed as if it might, for their dead brother's son was very dear to them.
 
"Oh, Donald, don't you wish there was something you and I could do for our country?" cried May. "If I was a little older I might be a Red Cross nurse—"
 
Donald interrupted her with a laugh. "I like that!" he cried; "you a Red Cross nurse indeed! Why, you haven't the pluck of a mouse! I shan't forget how you wept over that dead rabbit we found in a snare the other day!"
 
"That was because it had suffered," May answered; "you know it had been caught by the leg, not killed outright. If it had been living I should have loved to care for it till it was well."
 
Donald made no reply to this. He had suddenly remembered the hours his sister had devoted to him during his late illness, and felt ashamed that he had laughed at her tender-heartedness. He did not tell her so, however, and they went back to the house without speaking to each other again.
 
Punctually at ten o'clock Miss Cummings, the governess, arrived. She lived at Midbury with her widowed mother, and had held her present situation for years. She was a clever teacher, and a strict disciplinarian. May and Donald had a great respect but no affection for her. She was a tall, gaunt young woman, with a sallow complexion, grey eyes, and tightly-braided brown hair.
 
"Oh, Miss Cummings, have you heard the news?" May questioned, as the governess entered the schoolroom where she and Donald were waiting for her. "Captain Basset is sending his little girl to England—"
 
"So Miss Basset has informed me," Miss Cummings interrupted; "I met her in the hall. But no talking now, children! It's time for work to begin."
 
As a rule work ceased at half-past twelve o'clock. This morning May and Donald were inattentive, not wilfully, but because they found it impossible to keep their thoughts from wandering to the expected visitor, and the result was that it was nearly one o'clock before they had finished writing the impositions their governess gave them. By that time they were both feeling very ill-used.
 
The family at the Glen, who were simple living people, dined at half-past one. After dinner, if the weather was fine, Miss Cummings generally took May for a walk. She did so to-day.
 
"Where are we going?" May inquired, as, on closing the big iron gate behind them, the governess paused, looking undecided. "May I choose the way?"
 
"Yes, if you like," Miss Cummings replied.
 
So May chose the road towards Midbury, which led past the blacksmith's house and shop. Old Dicker, a vigorous man of sixty, with grizzled hair, was at work in the shop, and his wife, a little, plump, rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed woman, stood in the doorway knitting. May nodded smilingly to the blacksmith, and spoke to Mrs. Dicker.
 
"I saw your son march past the Glen this morning," she informed her.
 
"Ah, yes!" said the woman. "He was on his way to Kilber Down with the other recruits. They're going to be taught trench-digging there."
 
"How interesting!" exclaimed Miss Cummings.
 
"Ah, there's a lot for them to learn," said Mrs. Dicker, "and they've got to be sharp about it."
 
"Did you want your son to be a soldier?" asked May curiously.
 
"Not at first," Mrs. Dicker admitted, "but when I'd thought about it more I did, and felt ashamed I hadn't bid him go and do his duty. God's calling us all to-day, as plain as plain can be to show ourselves Christian soldiers."
 
"But women can't be soldiers," said May; "they don't fight battles."
 
"They have sometimes the hardest battles of all to fight," Mrs. Dicker answered gravely, "and so you'll find, miss. I wanted to keep my boy. That was selfishness, and I had to fight it. It wasn't easy."
 
"But you won!" smiled Miss Cummings.
 
At this minute a cab appeared, coming towards them from the direction of Midbury. As it passed by May clutched her governess excitedly by the arm.
 
"Did you see?" she cried— "see all the luggage I mean? And the lady and little girl? Oh, let us go home, please, Miss Cummings! I feel sure that little girl is Josephine Basset!"
CHAPTER II JOSEPHINE'S ARRIVAL

 
"I SUPPOSE, my dear, you are very glad to be at your journey's end?"
 
The speaker was Miss Basset. Half an hour since she had been disturbed in her afternoon nap by the arrival of Josephine, and Mrs. Ford, the lady with whom Josephine had travelled to England. Having delivered her charge into the keeping of Miss Basset, Mrs. Ford had declined to remain longer, and had left in the cab which had brought her and Josephine from Exeter; and now Miss Basset and her niece were alone in the pretty, comfortable bedroom which had been prepared for the latter only just in time.
 
Josephine Basset was a tall girl for her age, and very thin. She had a pale face, dark eyes with well-marked brows, and wavy dark hair. She was not pretty, but her expression was attractive—frank and good-humoured.
 
"Yes, very glad," she answered, "though, of course, I was sorry to say 'good-bye' to Mrs. Ford. But if she remains at Exeter, perhaps I shall see her again. She is staying there with friends at present, but she may take a furnished house later."
 
"I liked her appearance very much," remarked Miss Basset; "she looked such a motherly woman. She has children of her own, I suppose?"
 
"No. But her husband, Colonel Ford, calls her the mother of the regiment, because if people are in trouble she helps them—mothers them, you know."
 
"I understand. How good of her! No wonder you were sorry to say 'good-bye' to her, my dear! But I hope you will be happy with us, Josephine—as happy as it is possible for you to be under the circumstances."
 
Josephine was standing by the window, looking out. Her face was composed, but her voice sounded slightly tremulous as she answered—
 
"You are very kind, Aunt Ann. I promised father to try to be happy, and of course I shall keep my word. I hope it hasn't put you out very much, my coming so suddenly? Father really didn't know where else to send me, and he thought you wouldn't mind. Everything was such a rush, you know."
 
"Yes, yes! I am very glad you have come! John and I have often said how much we should like to see you—our dear nephew's little girl! Your uncle will be disappointed that he was not here to welcome you. He went out directly after dinner, and there's no knowing where he's gone—he takes such long walks looking for rare insects and flowers. You have heard of the Raes, I suppose—the children who live with us?"
 
"Oh, yes! Uncle John is their guardian, isn't he? I expect that was the Rae boy I saw looking over the balusters when we arrived? You wrote and told father about his accident. Is he still lame?"
 
"Yes, and we fear he always will be. His sister has gone for a walk with her governess."
 
"I think they are coming up the carriage drive now, Aunt Ann."
 
"Then we will go downstairs, and we will have tea early—"
 
"Oh, please don't have it earlier for me!" interposed Josephine. "I had lunch before I left Exeter, not so very long ago."
 
"We dine at midday," explained Miss Basset, "and have a laid tea at five o'clock, and supper at half-past eight as a rule. Come along, my dear!"
 
She led the way downstairs. In the hall they found May and her governess in conversation with Donald, and Josephine was introduced to them.
 
"I want you to give the young folks a holiday to-morrow, please, Miss Cummings," said Miss Basset, "so that they may get to know Josephine."
 
"Certainly!" Miss Cummings answered.
 
"Oh, thank you!" cried Josephine.
 
It being now four o'clock, the hour at which the governess usually left the Glen, she said "good afternoon" and took her departure. As soon as she had gone May ran upstairs to take off her hat and jacket, whilst the others went into the dining-room, where Jane, the parlour-maid, was laying the table for tea.
 
"I thought perhaps you would want tea early, ma'am," the girl said to Miss Basset, with a glance at Josephine.
 
"Quite right, Jane," Miss Basset answered; "as soon as it is ready, please. We shall not wait till Mr. Basset returns."
 
Five minutes later the old lady and the three young people—May had soon returned—were seated at the table. It had a big bowl of chrysanthemums in the centre, most beautiful blooms. Josephine's face lighted up with a smile when she saw the old-fashioned bronze urn set before Miss Basset and heard it singing.
 
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "everything's exactly as father said it would be!—exactly as it was when he was a boy and used to spend his holidays here, Aunt Ann. He has always remembered—oh, everything! And how kind you were to him, too! Lots of times we've talked of coming home together, and—"
 
She paused abruptly, for Miss Basset was wiping her eyes, then added quickly—
 
"Oh, please don't cry! I didn't mean to make you cry!"
 
"I'm very foolish," murmured Miss Basset, "but when I think of your poor father—oh, dear me!"
 
Josephine was silent. Her pale face had become a little paler, but she showed no other sign of emotion. After a minute she said quietly: "Father is all right, Aunt Ann."
 
Miss Basset was so surprised at this remark that she could only stare at Josephine in amazement. May and Donald stared at her too; they thought she certainly must be rather heartless.
 
"You mustn't trouble about his having been ordered to the front, if that's what you're crying about," Josephine continued; "I don't mean to—more than I can help. Of course—" her voice trembling slightly— "I can't help being anxious; but I'm a soldier's daughter, and I don't want to be a coward as though I couldn't trust God to take care of father—wherever he is—whatever happens. Oh," springing to her feet, "is this Uncle John?"
 
Mr. Basset had entered the room in quite a state of excitement, for he had been told by the gardener of Josephine's arrival.
 
"Yes, it's Uncle John, who's heartily glad to see you, my dear," he said. "Why, what a tall girl you are! And very like your father! His eyes, I see! Ann, have you noticed?"
 
Miss Basset assented. Having kissed Josephine, Mr. Basset seated himself at the table by her side, and, for a time, gave her all his attention, asking her many questions about her father, which she answered cheerfully.
 
"Does he think the war will last long?" he inquired by and by.
 
"He is afraid it will," Josephine replied gravely; "but he says no one can really tell."
 
"True!" agreed Mr. Basset. "Ann, did you know some Belgian refugees were expected at Midbury to-day?" he asked, turning to his sister.
 
"I didn't know when they were expected," she answered, "but I knew they were coming. Some one called here this afternoon for a subscription to a fund for providing for them. I promised a guinea a month, and said no doubt you would give something, too."
 
"Very willingly. I was passing the railway station when the Belgians arrived, and waited to have a look at them. There were twenty—mostly women and children; they had lost everything except the clothes they were wearing, so I was told."
 
"Oh, how sad!" cried May pitifully.
 
"It must be terrible to be homeless," remarked Miss Basset; "heart-breaking, I call it."
 
Mr. Basset agreed. "Yet most of them appeared cheerful," he said; "that seemed marvellous to me."
 
"They know they've not been to blame in anyway, and that makes them brave, don't you think?" suggested Josephine. "I heard a lot about the Belgians in Exeter—you know I spent last night there with Mrs. Ford; her friends are busy making clothes for them. Oh, I wish I could sew!"
 
"Can't you?" asked May.
 
"No," Josephine replied regretfully; "I suppose you can? Oh, I do wish you'd teach me! You will? Now, that's kind of you. Can you knit?"
 
May shook her head. "Can you?" she questioned.
 
"Yes. Mrs. Ford taught me because I wanted to knit socks for father. I knitted him two silk pairs for his last birthday. I'm knitting him wool ones now. I'll tell you what: I'll teach you to knit, May, in return for your teaching me to sew, shall I?"
 
May flushed with pleasure.
 
"Oh, please!" she cried. "I should like that! I want to make things for the soldiers. Miss Cummings says nearly every one she knows is doing something for them. But there didn't seem to be anything I could do."
 
After tea Josephine, accompanied by May, was shown over the house. In the schoolroom the little girls found Donald, who was occupying the one easy chair the room possessed, drawn close to the fire. He was lying back with his hands clasped behind his head, a gloomy expression in his blue eyes.
 
"Does your knee hurt you much now?" Josephine inquired, looking at him sympathetically.
 
"No," he replied, "not much—thank you."
 
"The doctor says he will be able to do without his crutch very soon," remarked May.
 
"But I shall always be lame," the boy said; "and I call that jolly hard lines for a fellow who'd made up his mind to be a soldier!"
 
"Yes," agreed Josephine, adding: "Perhaps you won't mind so much by and by—you'll think of something else you'd like to be."
 
"Oh, that's how May talks!—it maddens me. I've got the fighting spirit—I'm not a milksop! How would your father feel if he couldn't do anything for his king and country?—couldn't fight for them any more?"
 
Josephine considered a minute, looking thoughtful, then she said—
 
"I expect he'd feel—oh, dreadfully sorry, but he'd know it was God's will and he'd try not to make a trouble of it—it wouldn't be fighting the good fight to do that."
 
"The good fight?" questioned Donald, looking puzzled.
 
"The good fight of faith, you know," answered Josephine. "Oh, don't you understand what I mean? It's the hardest fight of all, father says, but we've all got to fight it if we're Christians. It's for truth, and honour, and love, and everything that's good against all that's false and selfish and bad. It's just being on the side of Jesus—being soldiers of the Cross, you know!"
 
She looked from the brother to the sister as she spoke. May met her dark eyes with an eager expression in her blue ones; her thoughts had flown to Mrs. Dicker, who had said she had had to fight selfishness and it hadn't been easy.
 
"I think you are a very extraordinary girl," said Donald, "and very old for your age."
 
"I didn't know I was extraordinary," Josephine replied, her pale cheeks flushing slightly, "but I dare say I am old for my age—I've never seen much of other children, you know."
 
The conversation then turned to her life in India, and, after a while, to the war. May and Donald were interested in all Josephine could tell them concerning military matters, and found her an entertaining companion. They were surprised when the supper gong sounded; the evening seemed to have flown.
 
"Josephine is a nice, well-mannered child," Miss Basset remarked to her brother later, after the young people had gone to bed, "but I do not think she has very acute feelings. She could talk of her father without even shedding a tear."
 
The old lady stole noiselessly into her little niece's room the last thing before she went to bed herself, and heard, by her regular breathing, that she was sleeping. Shading the lighted candle she was carrying with her hand, she bent over her.
 
Josephine moved her head uneasily, and began to talk in her sleep.
 
"Good-bye, daddy, good-bye!" she murmured. "Yes, yes, I promise! I will be brave, I will!"
 
"Poor, dear child!" murmured Miss Basset; "I believe I've done her an injustice—I dare say she feels more than she shows."
 
She stole away noiselessly as she had come. Every night since war had been declared she had prayed for the soldiers and sailors serving their country, but never so earnestly as she did that night. Josephine's arrival seemed, somehow, to have brought the war near—very near home.
CHAPTER III JOSEPHINE'S GIFTS

 
THE day after Josephine's arrival at the Glen was Friday—market day at Midbury. Miss Basset was in the habit of attending the market to buy butter, and eggs, and poultry. She drove a little phaeton, drawn by a fat pony called Tommy, and was generally accompanied by an elderly groom, Barnes but this morning when she inquired, at the breakfast-table, how the young people were going to spend the day, May cried—
 
"Oh, Aunt Ann, do take us to market with you!"
 
Although the twins were not related to Miss Basset and her brother, they always called them aunt and uncle, and loved them as though they were.
 
"What, all of you?" said Miss Basset, smiling indulgently.
 
"Yes, please," May answered. "Donald could have the seat beside you, and Josephine and I could sit opposite. We'd walk the hill, wouldn't we, Josephine?"
 
"Oh, yes!" Josephine agreed readily.
 
She had risen feeling sad and depressed, but when, on coming downstairs, her aunt and uncle had kissed her affectionately, her heart had warmed towards them, whilst her spirits had risen immediately.
 
"Donald could remain in the carriage and look after Tommy whilst we were in the market," remarked Miss Basset, "then we shouldn't want Barnes. Well, dears, I've no objection to your accompanying me."
 
So it was arranged. After breakfast Mr. Basset took Josephine to look at his chrysanthemums, which were in full bloom. Then he showed her what he called his "winter garden" —the green house where grew primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and other plants which flower about Christmas under glass. And all the while he talked to her of her father, telling her stories of his boyhood, and assuring her that Paul had always been a very dear boy, hearing which, she felt that already she loved Uncle John very much. She left him reluctantly when it was time for her to go to get ready for the drive to Midbury; for his talk had cheered her, and soothed the heartache which, though she never spoke of it, had not left her since she and her father had been separated.
 
Miss Basset always started for market at eleven o clock; so ten minutes after that hour found her, accompanied by the three children, driving along the road towards the town.
 
"We must not hurry Tommy, for he has a heavier load than he's accustomed to," she remarked; "let him take his time."
 
Tommy's pace, on the outward journey, was not much faster than a man would walk, and when he came to the hill May had mentioned he stopped of his own accord. The little girls got out and walked the hill, arriving at the top as soon as the carriage. There a halt was made for a few minutes so that Josephine should look at the view—a beautifully wooded valley in the midst of which lay the town.
 
"This is Tor Hill," said Miss Basset, "and that thatched house nearly at the foot of the hill is the blacksmith's—between that and the town there is only one other dwelling—Vine Cottage—"
 
"Oh, such a funny old woman lives there, Josephine!" May interposed; "she's called Mrs. Rumbelow, and she's bent almost two-double! She lives quite by herself, I believe."
 
"Look, Josephine," said Miss Basset, "you can see the tower of the parish church—it's almost in the centre of the town. But that's not the church we attend as a rule. There's a church much nearer where we generally go. Come, dears!"
 
Josephine and May took their seats in the carriage again. Tommy descended the hill carefully, passed the blacksmith's, and, a few minutes later, Vine Cottage; then, on reaching the town, suddenly began to trot. He trotted along the principal street, Fore Street, and, turning down a side street, arrived at a large square space on one side of which were the market buildings. There, close to the entrance of the butter market, he pulled up.
 
"He knows exactly where to stop," Miss Basset remarked, as she handed the reins to Donald and got out of the carriage followed by the two little girls. "We shall not be long, I expect, Donald."
 
"Oh, don't hurry, Aunt Ann!" the boy answered; "I like watching the people."
 
Josephine had never before seen anything like the busy scene inside the butter market. It was a spacious, airy building, filled with row after row of stalls laden with baskets full of dairy produce. Directly inside the chief entrance was a huge crate, in charge of two boy scouts, and inside the crate were rabbits, poultry, vegetables, and various parcels, whilst in one corner was a big basket containing a dozen or so of eggs.
 
"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Basset, addressing one of the boys, "these are gifts for the Voluntary Aid Hospital, I suppose?"
 
"Yes, ma'am," he answered, adding: "The first lot of wounded arrived last night."
 
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the old lady, "oh, dear me!"
 
"Aunt Ann," said Josephine, "I should like to give something to the hospital. What can I buy?"
 
"Eggs?" suggested Miss Basset. "Really, though, there's no necessity for you to give anything. I will speak to your uncle and get him to send a present of apples and vegetables from the garden."
 
"But I want to give something myself," Josephine answered; "I will buy some eggs."
 
She bought a dozen, and placed them in the egg basket inside the crate. Then Miss Basset made her purchases, which her young companions carried for her to the carriage; they told Donald about the crate of gifts for the soldiers' hospital.
 
"Josephine has bought some eggs and given," May told her brother, "but I've no money. I spent my last week's pocket-money in chocolates; I shan't do that again."
 
"I've only threepence," Donald admitted. "Shall we ask Aunt Ann to buy us something, and—"
 
"No, no!" his sister broke in, "it wouldn't be our present at all then."
 
The twins received their pocket-money every Monday, but they were generally penniless by the end of the week. Hitherto they had always spent their money on themselves; it had never occurred to them to do otherwise.
 
From the butter market Josephine was taken into the adjoining building, where there were stalls laden with goods of all sorts, including second-hand clothing and books, stationery, and flowers and ferns in pots. Then there was the fruit and vegetable market to be seen, and after that a cheap jack selling umbrellas. He had a wonderful flow of language, and pressed his goods so cleverly that he sold them at a surprisingly quick rate.
 
Josephine was greatly interested in all she saw and heard, and was sorry when Miss Basset at length said it was time to go home. They were all in the carriage and about to start, when Donald exclaimed: "Oh, there's Dr. Farrant!" and the owner of the name—a pleasant-faced man of about fifty—came to Miss Basset's side and spoke to her.
 
"How do you do?" the old lady said cordially. "You're quite a stranger! You haven't been to the Glen for a fortnight or more."
 
"Because I have been more than usually busy," he replied, "and I knew my patient could do without me." He smiled at Donald as he spoke.
 
"I hear you are to give your services at the Voluntary Aid Hospital," Miss Basset remarked.
 
He assented.
 
"Have you been over it?" he inquired. "No? Oh, you should! We have some patients now—they will be pleased to receive visitors. Bring your young folks to see them, they will help cheer them up."
 
"This is our great niece from India," Miss Basset said, indicating Josephine; "she only arrived yesterday. Her father's regiment has been ordered to the front, and she is going to remain with us till the war is over. Oh, this terrible war!" The old lady shuddered.
 
"Yes, it is indeed a terrible war," Dr. Farrant agreed; "but we can face it bravely, knowing we're fighting for truth, and honour, and right against might. Ah, your pony's in a hurry to be off, I see!"
 
Tommy had made a sudden start forward with an impatient shake of his head, and now, as the doctor moved back, he began to turn of his own accord, and two minutes later he had started for home. It was evident he intended returning faster than he had come, for it was as much as his mistress could do to check his pace until he was out of the town.
 
"You see, he can go well when he likes, my dear," Miss Basset said, smiling at Josephine. "He is a bad starter, but he will soon take us home."
 
It was one o'clock when the Glen was reached.
 
Tommy waited to be given a slice of bread, then was led away by Barnes to the stable, whilst Miss Basset and the young people went to get ready for dinner.
 
"What are we going to do this afternoon?" May inquired during dinner. "What would you like to do, Josephine?"
 
"I should like to write to father," Josephine answered; "I've such a lot to tell him."
 
"But, my dear, you don't know where to write to him, do you?" questioned Mr. Basset.
 
"No, Uncle John. He said probably he would reach England almost as soon as I should, but he would most likely go straight across to France. I mayn't hear from him for a little while, but I should like to begin a letter to him—I can finish it later on."
 
Mr. Basset nodded.
 
"You can write in my study," he said; "you will be undisturbed, for I shall be out. If it's fine I always go for a walk in the afternoon."
 
Mr. Basset's study was a large room, with a round table in the centre on which stood his microscope. The walls were lined with shelves—some filled with books, others with jars and bottles—and cabinets holding many treasured possessions. In front of the window, which looked into a fruit garden, was a writing-table, which Mr. Basset told his niece she was at liberty to use.
 
Josephine commenced her letter, but before she had been writing long she began to feel the atmosphere very oppressive. There was a big fire in the grate, and the weather was mild for the time of the year. Rising, she opened the low French window to let in some air, and, as she did so, she heard a voice in the garden say—
 
"Oh, cook, it's pitiful! I feel like crying only thinking about it! Poor little fatherless lamb!"
 
Josephine stepped through the open window and looked for the speaker, who proved to be the parlour-maid. The girl had been speaking to the cook through the front kitchen window which faced the fruit garden. Her eyes—very kind eyes they were—were full of tears.
 
"What is the matter?" Josephine asked.
 
"There's nothing the matter, miss," Jane replied; "cook and I've only been talking of the Belgians."
 
"Was it a Belgian you called a poor little fatherless lamb?"
 
Jane nodded.
 
"There was a Belgian baby born at Midbury last night," she explained; "the mother's a widow—her husband's been killed in the war."
 
"Oh, poor woman!" murmured Josephine, her cheeks paling.
 
"Aye, poor woman indeed!" agreed Jane. "Cook hears—the milkman told her—that no preparations had been made for the baby's arrival, the mother having fled from Belgium without any belongings and being without money. I've been saying to cook I wish I had a nice warm shawl to give the poor infant, but I haven't."
 
"I have!" Josephine cried eagerly, "a beautiful one made of white Shetland wool! Oh, I'd so like the baby to have it! Could it be managed, Jane?"
 
"Why, yes, miss. It's my evening out, and if you'd trust the shawl to me I'd leave it at the house where the Belgians are living. But perhaps you'd better speak to your aunt about it, miss."
 
"Oh, yes!" agreed Josephine, "I will!"
 
Miss Basset, when consulted, at first rather objected to Josephine's parting with the shawl, which was almost new, but when she saw her niece's heart was set on giving it, she said—
 
"Well, dear, do as you like. I only thought one less valuable might do. I am sure in my wardrobe there must be an old shawl I could do without."
 
"Oh, no, thank you, Aunt Ann!" Josephine broke in quickly, "I would rather give my own."
 
"Very well, dear. It is a beauty. The baby will be quite grand."
 
"Mrs. Ford made the shawl for me on the voyage; she thought I might feel the cold and be glad to wrap it around me in the night," Josephine explained. "I shall tell her what I have done with it."
 
"She will not be hurt at your parting with her present?" asked Miss Basset.
 
"I am sure she will not! Oh, Aunt Ann, think of that poor little baby with no father—" Josephine broke down suddenly, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER IV SUNDAY AT THE GLEN

 
 
"DONALD, you haven't told me yet what you think of Josephine. Do you like her?"
 
May was the speaker. It was the afternoon of Josephine's first Sunday at the Glen, a wet afternoon with a chill wind blowing; and the twins, who had the drawing-room to themselves, were seated one on either side of the fire. Donald had been reading, but he flung aside his book as his sister spoke, and answered—
 
"Don't know—haven't made up my mind."
 
"She isn't a bit like what Aunt Ann and Uncle John expected. They both imagined she'd be very sad and unhappy, thinking of her father, you know, and being all amongst strangers; but she isn't, is she? This morning I said to her, I wondered where her father was and what he was doing, and she said, 'Yes, I wonder!' but she didn't seem to be troubling about him. And do you know, she told me when we got back from church that she'd had a most enjoyable morning!"
 
Miss Basset had driven to church, as she usually did, but May and Josephine had walked with Mr. Basset. Donald had not been to church at all since his accident; he might have accompanied Miss Basset had he cared to do so.
 
"I don't know, I'm sure, why it should have been so enjoyable," May continued, "for we had a heavy shower on our way to church, and, as you know, the rain came on in torrents on our way home, so that we were simply drenched. By the by, there were a lot of soldiers in church, and we had a sermon all about fighting."
 
"What about it?" asked Donald, with sudden interest. "What was the text?"
 
"I can't tell you; I didn't listen. You had better ask Josephine. She was very attentive; I believe she heard every word."
 
"Where is she now?"
 
"In her bedroom. I heard voices as I passed the door—hers and Jane's. Oh, here she is! Take this chair by the fire, Josephine."
 
Josephine obeyed. There was a faint flush on her pale cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
 
"I've been talking to Jane," she said; "she's been telling me about her aunt who lives in that cottage near the town—"
 
"What, Mrs. Rumbelow?" interrupted May. "Oh, I didn't know she was Jane's aunt! What does Jane say about her?"
 
"She says she suffers badly from rheumatism—that's what makes her so bent. Sometimes she can scarcely move for days together, and the pain is dreadful. Yet she never complains. I think that's so brave of her, don't you?"
 
The twins agreed, and Josephine continued—
 
"Jane says her aunt has had a lot of trouble in her life. Her husband died, after years of sickness during which she had to work hard as a charwoman to support him; and then her son, her only child, turned out badly—she thinks he's in Canada now, but she hasn't heard from him for ever so long. Oh, isn't it cruel of him not to write to her?"
 
"Perhaps he's dead," suggested Donald.
 
"That's what Jane says. His mother doesn't think so, though; she feels sure she'll hear from him some day."
 
"Poor old woman!" May exclaimed, her sympathy aroused. "Does Jane often go to see her, I wonder?"
 
"Very often," Josephine answered. "She called to see her on her way to Midbury on Friday evening, and told her where she was taking my shawl. Mrs. Rumbelow asked her lots of questions about the Belgians, and said how sorry she felt for them. She was beginning to say she wished it was in her power to help them when she stopped suddenly, and looked so thoughtful that Jane wondered what she was thinking about; then she asked Jane to wait a bit and went upstairs and brought down a bundle of—guess what!"
 
The twins shook their heads. Josephine continued—
 
"Why, baby clothes! She told Jane she had never meant to part with them because they'd been her son's, and every time she looked at them, which was very often, she thought of her son as he'd been when he wore them, a little innocent creature who'd never done anything wrong, and that was how she liked to picture him. 'It makes my heart ache to give them away,' she said, 'but the gift isn't worth much which costs nothing, so take them, my dear.' And Jane took them."
 
"But it didn't cost Mrs. Rumbelow anything—" Donald was beginning when Josephine broke in—
 
"Oh, don't you understand? Money wouldn't have bought those baby clothes from her, Jane says; she valued them so much as that. So it must have cost her something to give them away!"
 
"Yes," agreed May gravely, "of course it did—looking at it like that." She paused momentarily, then added: "Doesn't it say somewhere in the Bible, 'Naked, and ye clothed Me'?"
 
Josephine nodded. "Those were Christ's own words," she said softly. "I thought of them, too, when Jane told me what her aunt had done."
 
"Do you remember the text of the sermon this morning?" May inquired. "Donald asked me what it was, but I couldn't tell him."
 
"It was, 'I have fought a good fight,'" Josephine answered promptly.
 
"And the sermon was about fighting?" Donald questioned.
 
Josephine assented. "It was about our all being soldiers," she said, "soldiers of the Cross. I liked the preacher."
 
"I don't know his name," May said, "but I heard some one say as we were coming out of church that he's an army chaplain, a friend of the Vicar's, who is going to France next week."
 
"Oh, to the front!" Josephine exclaimed. She was silent a minute, then continued: "He said that we must try to live so that when God calls us to Himself we may each one of us be able to say as Paul did, 'I have fought the good fight.' I enjoyed his sermon. And I liked the hymn afterwards, for it's father's favourite. I expect you know it, Donald. It begins 'Fight the good fight with all thy might.'"
 
"I don't think I ever heard it," Donald replied.
 
"Shall we sing it to him, May?" suggested Josephine.
 
"I don't know the words," May answered. "Besides, who's going to play the accompaniment? I can't."
 
"Nor can I," Josephine admitted. "But I can sing it without an accompaniment, I think. I'll try."
 
She rose, and stood with clasped hands, whilst she sung in a voice which, though not powerful, was clear and sweet as a silver bell—
 
 
 
"Fight the good fight with all thy might,
 
Christ is thy Strength, and Christ thy Right;
 
Lay hold on life, and it shall be
 
Thy joy and crown eternally."
 
 
 
"Run the straight race through God's good grace,
 
Lift up thine eyes, and seek His face;
 
Life with its way before us lies,
 
Christ is the path, and Christ the prize."
 
 
 
"Cast care aside, lean on thy Guide;
 
His boundless mercy will provide;
 
Lean, and the trusting soul shall prove
 
Christ is its life, and Christ its love."
 
 
 
"Faint not, nor fear, His arms are near,
 
He changeth not, and thou art dear;
 
Only believe, and thou shalt see
 
That Christ is all in all to thee."
 
 
 
"Thank you, my dear! There's a truly martial ring about that hymn—a call to battle. And the battle-cry is faith."
 
The speaker was Mr. Basset, who had entered the room unnoticed by the children. He joined them by the fire, looking with interest at his little niece who had flushed and smiled at his remark.
 
"I've been telling May and Donald that that's father's favourite hymn," she said; "he thinks it's fine, and so do I. Oh, Uncle John, I do wonder when we shall hear from father! I suppose we might get a letter from him any day—there's no knowing. He said he thought I should have to go to school, but do you know what I should like? Why, to do lessons with May and Donald—if they would not mind."
 
"Mind!" cried May; "oh, we should be delighted! More the merrier!"
 
"Miss Cummings doesn't give us a very merry time," remarked Donald dryly.
 
May laughed.
 
"She is a very serious sort of person," she explained to Josephine, "even out of school hours."
 
"But she is a most excellent teacher," Mr. Basset said, "and that is the main thing to be considered. You had a governess in India, had you not, Josephine?"
 
"Yes, Uncle John," Josephine answered, "Miss Ford. She was a niece of Mrs. Ford's. Last June, though, she was married, and since then I've had a holiday—father thought it would do me no harm. Miss Ford and I were great friends."
 
"I don't think I could ever be very friendly with Miss Cummings," observed May. "Those Fords must be very nice people," she added.
 
"They are dears—all of them!" Josephine declared. "Colonel Ford is a splendid soldier; I believe his men would die for him."
 
"Do you mean the Indian soldiers?" asked Donald.
 
"Yes, of course. Father says they love and honour him because he's so just, and at the same time so kind. He's such a popular officer. And his wife—oh, I can't tell you all she's been to me! She was my mother's friend, and I think she has always loved me for my mother's sake."
 
There was a brief silence, which was broken by May, who told Mr. Basset about Mrs. Rumbelow's present to the Belgians.
 
"Poor old soul," he said pityingly, after he had listened to her tale; "I remember her son—a ne'er-do-well. I hope I shall not forget to send a hamper of fruit and vegetables to the Belgians to-morrow—I meant to do so yesterday, but I forgot."
 
"Shall we remind you, Uncle John?" asked Josephine eagerly.
 
"I wish you would, my dear," he replied; "I've a shockingly bad memory. Dear me, listen to the wind! It's going to be a wild night!"
 
"How wretched it will be for our soldiers in the trenches!" exclaimed May. "Poor fellows, I do pity them. Oh, by the way, Donald, I didn't tell you that the recruits are learning trench making on Kilber Down."
 
"How do you know?" inquired Donald.
 
"Mrs. Dicker told me," May replied. "I mean to go and see what they're doing," she continued; "I dare say Miss Cummings will take Josephine and me to Kilber Down one afternoon. I wish you could come too, Donald."
 
"What's the good of wishing it when you know I can't?" said Donald sharply. Then, meeting a surprised glance from Josephine's eyes, he added: "Perhaps I may get Aunt Ann to drive me there."
 
"Is your knee hurting you to-day, Donald?" inquired Josephine.
 
"Not at all, thank you," the boy answered. "What made you ask?"
 
"Because of the way you spoke," was the frank response; "I know if some people are in pain they get touchy and cross."
 
Donald grew very red at this remark; but he let it pass, much as he longed to retort. May looked at him anxiously, and was relieved when he did not speak.
 
The rain was too heavy for any one to think of leaving the house again that day. At tea time Mr. Basset told his sister of Josephine's wish to be taught by Miss Cummings, and Miss Basset agreed with him that it would be an excellent plan if it could be arranged. Mr. Basset then retired to his study, and Miss Basset and the children spent the evening in the drawing-room. It was a very dull evening; for the old lady fell asleep in her chair by the fire, and the young folks did not like to talk for fear of disturbing her.
 
No one was sorry when the supper gong sounded. The household at the Glen always met for family prayer in the dining-room after supper. Mr. Basset read the prayers from a well-worn book; but on this Sunday night for the first time he added a prayer for "all those who are serving our country on land and sea," concluding with a verse of that beautiful hymn for absent friends—
 
 
 
Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
 
Be their light and guide.
 
Keep, oh, keep them, in their weakness
 
At Thy side.
 
 
 
Josephine had been fighting against depression all the evening, but when she rose from her knees that peace which passes understanding filled her heart. She knew that wherever her beloved father was he was in God's keeping. Jesus was at his side.
CHAPTER V DICK RUMBELOW ENLISTS

 
 
THE Raes' young governess was very glad to teach Josephine, for the arrangement meant a considerable increase to her salary. Mrs. Cummings had a small annuity, so small indeed that it was only with the greatest care and aided by her daughter's earnings that it was possible to make both ends meet; therefore some extra money was most acceptable.
 
Mrs. Cummings was a sad-faced woman, who always spoke and looked as though life had served her badly, the truth being that she remembered her sorrows and forgot her blessings. She did most of the work of the little house which she and her daughter occupied at Midbury, but she did not do it uncomplainingly. She was a trying woman to live with, for she persistently looked on the dark side of things. Thus it was that when, one chilly afternoon, she and her daughter sat taking their tea together in their cosy little parlour and she heard that Josephine Basset had received a letter from Captain Basset, from France, she shook her head mournfully and said—
 
"Ah, poor child, poor child! To think that that letter may be his last!"
 
"We won't think anything of the kind, mother," was the quick rejoinder; "it's wrong to anticipate trouble."
 
"If any one belonging to me was at the front, I shouldn't have a minute's peace of mind, Margaret!" Mrs. Cummings declared solemnly.
 
Margaret Cummings knew this was true. Her mother's fretting, worrying disposition had always been something to contend against.
 
"Fortunately Josephine is not like you, mother," she answered; "although I have not seen a great deal of her yet, I have discovered that she has a very brave spirit. She has been taught to be fearless. I think her father must be a very fine character, judging from what she has told me of him—she likes nothing better than to talk of him, I find."
 
"You are evidently pleased with your new pupil," remarked Mrs. Cummings. "How does she get on with the Raes?"
 
"She and May are good friends, but I am not sure that Donald altogether likes her. She is too outspoken to please him, I fancy. You know he has been accustomed to tyrannize over his sister, and Josephine shows her disapproval of that very plainly. The other day he made May cry—he often does—and then Josephine gave him to understand what she thought of his conduct."
 
"What did he say?"
 
"Not a word at first. He grew crimson and glared at her, but was too angry to answer. May dried her eyes quickly, and said, 'Oh, he didn't mean to be unkind!' 'What did he mean then?' Josephine asked indignantly; 'it was cowardly of him to make you cry!' At that Donald found his voice. 'I'm not a coward,' he said, 'and I dare you to say it!' 'I dare say anything that's true,' Josephine replied, 'and I shouldn't see any one bully another without interfering, I hope!'
 
"I thought I ought to interfere then; so I told them not to wrangle, and no more was said. But I am sure Donald has not forgiven Josephine for standing up for his sister, and I believe May is secretly vexed with her for having spoken to Donald as she did."
 
There was a brief silence, then the young governess continued—
 
"Josephine is teaching May to knit. They have suggested that on wet afternoons when we cannot go for walks we should work for the soldiers, and I have agreed to the plan. Miss Basset has offered to supply us with whatever materials we want. Yesterday, by the way, she and Donald drove into the town and paid a visit to the wounded at the hospital."
 
"She did not go empty-handed, I expect?"
 
"Oh, no! She took a large basket filled with dainties; and after her visit she went and bought some good warm blankets and had them sent to the hospital—the matron had said they were wanted."
 
"How nice it must be to be well off so as to be able to make gifts like that!" exclaimed Mrs. Cummings. "When I read in the newspapers all our poor soldiers have gone through I long to be in the position to do something for them. But you and I have no money to spend, Margaret."
 
"Very little, anyway," her daughter replied.
 
"I looked through my wardrobe to-day to see if there was anything I could spare for the Belgians," Mrs. Cummings said, sighing, "but really, most of my dresses are threadbare."
 
"I know, I know!" the young governess interposed hurriedly. "Never mind, dear! Don't make a trouble of that!"
 
The next afternoon she returned from the Glen with a big parcel in her arms, and an unusually bright expression on her face.
 
"I've brought home some wool," she said, as her mother looked at her inquiringly, "Miss Basset said I might—she has bought such a lot. I told her you and I would be very glad to have some work to do for the soldiers during the winter evenings, and she said she would gladly supply the wool for us to use. See, here's some for making scarves! Isn't it beautifully soft and warm? Now, are you pleased I have brought it or not?"
 
"Pleased, of course!" Mrs. Cummings answered promptly. She felt the wool, and expressed herself satisfied with the quality. "We'll wind it the first thing after tea," she said, "and set to work at once."
 
This they did whilst they talked of the war and of all those in whom they were interested who were serving their country; and Mrs. Cummings forgot her own grievances and plied her knitting needles faster and faster as she discussed the gravity of the situation in France and Flanders.
 
Meanwhile, at the Glen, Donald, in his favourite chair by the schoolroom fire, was discontentedly watching his sister and Josephine, who, having finished their lessons for the morrow, had taken up their knitting.
 
"I wonder how long it will be before you two will tire of being so industrious," he remarked disagreeably by and by; then, receiving no answer, he added: "They're knitting in the kitchen, too."
 
May nodded. "Aunt Ann has told the servants she'll keep them supplied with wool," she said, "they're ever so pleased!"
 
"I've told father what we're all doing," said Josephine, "I've written him such a long letter in answer to his."
 
"I suppose you've told him about everything and every one?" Donald suggested.
 
"Oh, yes!" Josephine assented. She smiled at the boy as she spoke, then looked grave as she added: "I've told him how greatly disappointed you are that you won't be able to be a soldier when you're a man."
 
"Humph!" grunted Donald.
 
"You don't mind my having told him, do you?" asked Josephine.
 
"No," the boy answered. "But what else did you say about me?" he inquired suspiciously.
 
"Oh, nothing much!"
 
"I thought you might have said you considered me a coward!"
 
Josephine flushed.
 
"No," she replied, "I did not."
 
She paused a minute, then continued: "I see you are thinking of what I said the other day when you were so unkind to May, but—"
 
"Oh, don't go back to that!" broke in May. "Why need you have done so, Donald? I'm sure Josephine didn't mean what she said."
 
Josephine glanced at her in astonishment.
 
"I did mean it," she declared; "it was true."
 
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, then the door opened to admit Mr. Basset.
 
"Josephine," he said, "I promised to show you my moths; would you like to see them this evening?"
 
"Oh, please!" Josephine cried, putting down her work and springing to her feet.
 
She followed her uncle downstairs to his study, where he placed her in a chair before the cabinet, the shallow drawers of which held every species of English moth. It was a wonderful collection, the result of much patience and labour, for Mr. Basset had found each specimen himself.
 
"I never guessed that there were so many different sorts of butterflies," Josephine said, as she bent over the last drawer, "and, oh, how beautiful most of them are! Look at those tiny ones! What a lovely colour!—the palest lilac!"
 
"They are not uncommon in this district," Mr. Basset answered; "you may see them on any fine summer's day on Kilber Down, hovering around flowers which are so like them in size and colour that you have to look closely to distinguish between butterflies and flowers."
 
"How wonderful!—wonderful that they should be so like the flowers, I mean."
 
"A wise provision of Nature for their protection," smiled Mr. Basset. Then, as Josephine was silent, he asked: "Of what are you thinking?"
 
"Of how much God cares for everything He has made," she answered gravely; "I shall keep a look out for those pretty lilac butterflies when summer comes, if all's well."
 
Mr. Basset put back the last drawer into its place and locked the cabinet. That done, he sat down and began to talk of his nephew; he had heard from him, too.
 
"I was pleased with the tone of his letter, my dear," he remarked, "it was so cheerful. Yes, it was the letter of a brave man. I must not read it to you, for it was of a private nature, but I should like to tell you one thing he said which impressed me very much, and that was that we must remember that whatever happened to him it was all right. We must try to feel that."
 
Josephine nodded, but her eyes filled with tears. Mr. Basset put a kind arm around her, and kissed her affectionately.
 
"Your father must be very proud of his brave little daughter!" he said.
 
"I'm not half so brave as you think!" Josephine told him; "sometimes I'm so—so frightened for father. Not always, only sometimes. I can't help it. A sort of panic comes over me. I want to fight, the good fight of faith! It's seemed easy till lately, but now, oh, it's so difficult! And yet I know God is watching over father—that He loves him—oh, a hundred times better than I do, and knows what's best for him, but—but—oh, Uncle John, this wicked, terrible war! Why does God allow it?"
 
Mr. Basset shook his head. "That is a mystery which we cannot solve," he said; "perhaps it will be plain to us when we no longer see through a glass darkly, but in the clear light of the world to come. We cannot judge now what the effects of the war will be—"
 
He broke off suddenly as the door opened and May entered, her pretty face aglow with excitement.
 
"Oh, Josephine!" she cried, "here's news you'll be interested in! What do you think has happened? Mrs. Rumbelow has heard from her son! He's come back to England from Canada with the Canadian contingent, and now he's in training on Salisbury Plain!"
 
"How do you know?" asked Josephine. "Did you hear from Jane?"
 
"Yes. She's been to see her aunt this evening, and has just got back. Young Rumbelow has written to his mother, saying how sorry he is for all the trouble he's caused her, and that he'd have written to her before if he hadn't been ashamed to. Jane has read the letter. In it he said, 'I've come back to turn over a new leaf, and try to blot out the past.' Jane says she hopes he means it. Anyway, it's a great joy to poor old Mrs. Rumbelow to have heard from him at last."
 
"He was a sad scapegrace," said Mr. Basset reflectively; "he was caught poaching on several occasions, and on the last the magistrates would not let him off with a fine, but sent him to prison. When he came out he took himself off—to Canada it was supposed. Repentant is he? Humph!"
 
"Don't you think he is?" asked Josephine.
 
Mr. Basset looked doubtful.
 
"There may have been good in him which was never brought out," he said; "I cannot say. Anyway, I am glad his mother has heard from him at last."
 
"Perhaps he will get leave and come to see her," said Josephine; "oh, he will be sure to, I think!"
 
"Jane says she hopes if he does he will behave himself," remarked May.
 
"Then doesn't she believe he means to turn over a new leaf?" inquired Josephine.
 
"She says she doesn't know what to believe," May answered gravely; "she has a very poor opinion of her cousin, I'm afraid."
 
"And not without reason," said Mr. Basset. "However, let us hope Dick Rumbelow—yes, his name's Dick, I remember—has really written what he feels. I think the better of him for having obeyed his king and country's call. I dare say he will not make a bad soldier. If he should really be sorry for his past misdeeds—should really be meaning to turn over a new leaf—"
 
"Oh, I hope he is!" interposed Josephine eagerly; "oh, Uncle John, let us hope he is! God may have changed his heart, mayn't He?"
 
"Certainly, my dear," Mr. Basset answered. "Well, well, time will show—time will show."
CHAPTER VI A JOYFUL SURPRISE

 
IT was a wet winter in the west of England, that first one during the war, but not a cold one, and March found primroses and white violets peeping through the beautiful fern moss which grew so luxuriously in the lanes around Midbury; so that when, one Saturday afternoon, after a rainy morning, the sky cleared and the sun shone out on a world full of the promise of spring, May, who had been standing at the schoolroom window which she had opened, suddenly turned to Josephine and said—
 
"Do let us go out! The air is lovely—full of delicious scents! I'm longing for a walk, and I'm sure there must be primroses in Durley Dell."
 
Josephine, who had been seated at the table, was putting away her writing materials.
 
"Then do let us try and get some," she answered; "you know, I've never seen a primrose yet."
 
Ten minutes later, having left word where they were going, the two little girls passed out into the bright sunshine, and were soon walking briskly along the road towards Midbury. Their way took them straight past the blacksmith's and down a lane beyond Vine Cottage; and then Durley Dell was reached. It was a charming spot in summer, but damp and rather cheerless on this early spring day. Only a few primrose buds were discovered, and those were very short-stemmed, and took some while to find.
 
"I thought we should have found more," remarked May in a disappointed tone; "some one must have been before us, I am sure."
 
"Never mind," Josephine answered, "we can come again another day. Oh, how sweet these buds smell! I must add a postscript to my letter to father, and tell him the primroses are coming out; he's often talked to me of the primroses in Durley Dell. Oh, May, won't it be splendid if he is able to come home for a few days soon, as, if all goes well, he says he may?"
 
"Yes, indeed," May agreed. "I can imagine how you are longing to see him," she added; "I think you've been ever so brave all through the long, long winter."
 
"It's the suspense that's so hard to bear," Josephine said; "I feel it here." She laid her hand on her breast as she spoke. "It's a kind of sinking feeling," she explained; "I don't suppose you can understand what I mean."
 
May did not, but she looked sympathetic. She had grown to love Josephine, and admired her brave spirit; she knew now that that brave spirit found its strength in Christ—in faith in His perfect wisdom and love.
 
"How overcast it is," she said, as they left the dell for the lane, "I did not notice that under the trees. I think we ought to walk faster, don't you?"
 
Josephine agreed. She glanced up into the sky and noticed a heavy cloud right overhead. The fine weather had been too bright to last. In a few moments great drops of rain began to fall—slowly as yet.
 
"There's going to be a heavy shower!" exclaimed May. "Run, run! Mrs. Rumbelow will let us stand under her porch, I'm sure! The rain may not last very long!"
 
Two minutes later they had reached Vine Cottage, where they took shelter under the porch. Josephine knew Mrs. Rumbelow by sight now, for she had often seen her at the little mission church on Sunday mornings; but neither she nor May had ever spoken to her. On hearing their footsteps and voices, the old woman hastened to open her cottage door, and looked out.
 
"Oh, please," began May, "may we wait here for a few minutes—just until the shower is over?"
 
"You'll get wet, miss; the wind's blowing the rain this way," Mrs. Rumbelow answered. "Pray come inside."
 
"Shall we?" whispered May, and, Josephine nodding assent, they followed Mrs. Rumbelow into the kitchen.
 
It was a very clean, tidy kitchen with a round deal table in the centre, a dresser holding cheap blue and white china, and a few wooden chairs. By the hearth, on which a cheerful log fire was burning, stood a wicker arm-chair, upholstered in a pretty rosy chintz, which looked quite new.
 
"Please sit down," said Mrs. Rumbelow hospitably. "Won't one of you take this chair? It's very comfortable."
 
She pointed at the wicker arm-chair as she spoke, but her visitors declined it. They seated themselves by the window, so that they might see when the rain stopped.
 
"It looks a delightfully comfortable chair," Josephine said with her bright, friendly smile; "won't you sit in it yourself, Mrs. Rumbelow, and talk to us? We seem to know you quite well, though we've never spoken to you before; we've heard of you from your niece, Jane. How is your rheumatism to-day?"
 
"Better than it has been, thank you, miss."
 
Mrs. Rumbelow had a pale, pinched-looking face which told of much suffering, and sunken eyes with a patient expression in them. She looked with great interest at her visitors, more especially at Josephine.
 
"Surely you didn't gather those yourself?" May asked, nodding at a bunch of primroses in a vase on the table.
 
"No, miss," was the reply; "my son picked them in Durley Dell this morning."
 
"Oh!" exclaimed May, "that's why we could find only these few buds then! When did your son come home, Mrs. Rumbelow?"
 
"The day before yesterday, miss."
 
Young Rumbelow had been home once before during the winter, shortly after his arrival in England—only for twenty-four hours, however. Jane had spoken of the deep joy his visit had given his mother, but she had not seen him herself, so had had little to tell concerning him.
 
"After this I shan't see him again before he goes abroad," Mrs. Rumbelow continued; "he's going before long, he expects. Yesterday he went into Midbury, and bought me this beautiful chair." She smiled and patted the arm of the wicker arm-chair almost tenderly as she spoke. "'There, mother,' he said, 'you'll be able to rest your poor old bones in comfort in that!' And I shall, I hope. He bought me that picture, too!"
 
She pointed to a cheap print in a frame over the mantelpiece. It was a likeness of the King of the Belgians.
 
"I'm so pleased to have it," she said earnestly, "for I call him such a noble man. He has a good, straight face, hasn't he?—the face of one who would keep his word?"
 
Her visitors assented. She continued—
 
"I like to think that my boy is on his side. 'Dick,' I said to him last night, when he hung up the picture for me, 'I shall spend many an hour when you're gone sitting here in this beautiful comfortable chair, looking at the likeness of that good king, and thinking of you fighting, like him, for truth and honour—all that's best worth fighting for—aye, and dying for!'"
 
"What did he say to that?" Josephine asked eagerly.
 
"Well, you see, miss, I don't think he'd looked at it quite in that light before, so he didn't say anything."
 
The rain was descending in a deluge now. It lasted for about ten minutes, then ceased almost suddenly.
 
"Would you like these primroses, miss?" Mrs. Rumbelow asked, rising stiffly from her chair when her visitors, who had thanked her gratefully for having sheltered them, were about to leave; "Dick will get me some more to-morrow." It was May she addressed.
 
"Oh, no, no!" May answered quickly, "but thank you all the same! These buds we have will open in water. She—" nodding at her companion— "never saw a primrose before to-day."
 
"Then they don't grow in India?" said Mrs. Rumbelow inquiringly.
 
Josephine smiled at the idea.
 
"Oh, no!" she replied. "But my father had told me about them—how sweet they are; and I had been looking forward to see them, of course I dare say you know that my father's in France—somewhere?"
 
"Yes, miss, Jane's told me. May God Almighty bless and keep him."
 
"He will," Josephine said earnestly, "I know He will."
 
Her bright young eyes met the old woman's sympathetic gaze for a minute, then grew misty. She took Mrs. Rumbelow's work-hardened hand, the joints of which were swelled and knotted, and pressed it softly. "May we come and see you again?" she asked.
 
"Indeed, I wish you would, miss," was the pleased response, "I should be pleased!"
 
"Then of course we will!" May cried, adding: "I wish we'd thought of coming to see you before!"
 
She echoed this wish as she and Josephine plodded home through the thick mud of the high road.
 
"I expect the poor old soul leads a very dull life," she remarked, "and after her son's gone again she'll feel very lonely. We must go and try to keep up her spirits. I am sure Aunt Ann will let us."
 
As they passed the blacksmith's shop they noticed a young soldier standing by the forge in conversation with the blacksmith, and Josephine whispered—
 
"That must be Dick Rumbelow, May. Yes, he has 'Canada' on his shoulder."
 
A little farther on the road they met the blacksmith's wife, and stopped to exchange a few words with her. The recruits who had been billeted at Midbury during the winter had left the previous week to complete their training elsewhere, and with them, of course, young Dicker; May inquired for him.
 
"He's quite well, thank you, miss," his mother answered, "and very cheerful and happy. I hope you get good news of your father, miss?" she questioned, addressing Josephine.
 
"He was safe and well the last time I heard from him," Josephine replied. "We saw a Canadian soldier talking to your husband, Mrs. Dicker; I wonder if he was Dick Rumbelow?"
 
"Sure to be, miss. You can't think how much he's improved since the first time he had leave and came home to see his mother. I thought then he was just the careless good-for-nothing he used to be—he didn't seem to have altered very much; but now it strikes me that he's sobered down wonderfully—it's the discipline that's done it may be, or maybe it's in answer to his mother's prayers. Ah, he's got a good mother, has Dick Rumbelow! I can't explain to you how patient she's always been with him, and so hopeful—but there, love hopeth all things, doesn't it?"
 
With this she nodded at them smilingly and went on her way. It took the little girls but five minutes after that to reach the Glen. Donald, who had watched their approach from the dining-room window, met them in the hall. He looked at Josephine strangely, she thought, and appeared very excited.
 
"You're wanted in Uncle John's study at once," he told her; "Aunt Ann and Uncle John are there, and—"
 
"Oh, Donald," Josephine broke in, paling to the lips, "there's nothing wrong, is there? There's no bad news of father? Oh, tell me it's not that!"
 
"No, no!" he cried reassuringly, "your father's safe and sound, and—why you've turned quite white! How silly! Go into the study! What are you waiting for? Hurry!"
 
But Josephine stood as though rooted to the ground, her lips parted, her ears strained—listening. From within the closed door of her uncle's study came the murmur of voices—Miss Basset's, Mr. Basset's, and one other's. Then, suddenly, a cry of intense joy burst from her lips, and, springing to the closed door, she flung it open, no longer pale, but with flushing cheeks and eyes full of yearning tenderness and love.
 
"Father, oh, father!" she cried, "you have come! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
 
She was in her father's arms by this time, half laughing, half crying, her head upon his breast.
 
"Come away!" said Miss Basset to her brother. Then, as he followed her from the room, closing the door behind him, she looked at him with her eyes full of tears, and sighed—
 
"Dear me! oh, dear me!"
 
"There's nothing for you to trouble about now, Ann," remarked Mr. Basset; nevertheless, his own sight was a trifle dim.
 
"No," she agreed, adding: "But I never until now realized how much she has missed him! Oh, poor little thing!"
CHAPTER VII HIS BRAVE LITTLE DAUGHTER
 
CAPTAIN BASSET was home on three days' leave only, so he had but one clear day to spend at the Glen, the Sunday which Josephine afterward looked back upon as one of the happiest of her life.
 
She was not so selfish as to wish to keep her father all to herself. It was sufficient joy for her to be in his presence, to listen to his voice, and to see that, whilst he talked to his aunt and uncle and made friends with May and Donald on his first evening at the Glen, his eyes constantly turned to her, telling her by their expression that this brief reunion was as great a joy to him as to her.
 
Captain Basset was a slight, middle-size man, with a thin bronzed face, dark hair, and eyes very like his little daughter's. His smile, too, was like hers, as was the frank, direct look he always gave every one he was talking to. Indeed the resemblance between the two was most strong, and noticeably so when they were together, a fact many remarked as they looked at father and daughter at the little mission church on Sunday morning.
 
Oh, how time flew on that memorable Sunday! Josephine resolutely put away all thought of the parting to come, and enjoyed every minute of her father's society, especially the precious hour she had with him alone in the afternoon when they strolled about the garden in the pleasant spring sunshine.
 
"And are you happy here?" Captain Basset questioned by and by.
 
"As happy as I could be anywhere without you, father," she answered; "I ought to be, for every one is so kind to me! May and I are like sisters, and Donald—well, he's very nice sometimes, too."
 
"Only sometimes?"
 
Josephine nodded.
 
"Sometimes no one can please him," she explained gravely; "they say he wasn't like that before his accident—it is his accident that has spoilt his temper Aunt Ann says. He wanted to be a soldier, you know; but that will be impossible now on account of his lame knee. It will never be quite right the doctors say. Father, I do wish you'd talk to him."
 
"Talk to him?" echoed Captain Basset inquiringly.
 
"Yes. I think he'd listen to you and pay attention to what you say. Couldn't you point out to him it's wrong to be cross with everybody because he's disappointed and unhappy himself? I do think it's very unkind of him, father."
 
"And rather cowardly, too. I don't suppose he's ever looked at it in that light though. Poor boy! I feel sorry for him."
 
"So do I. You know, he's being taught by Miss Cummings, and he doesn't like that; he gives her a lot of trouble very often. But he's to go back to boarding-school next term, I believe. The doctor says he will be able to do altogether without his crutch by then—he only uses it a little now."
 
"So I observe. You like your governess, Josephine?"
 
"Oh, yes! At first I did not, but now I know her better I do. She lives at Midbury with her mother, who is rather a melancholy sort of person. May and I went to tea with them once during the Christmas holidays. Oh, I did miss you so dreadfully at Christmas! But I didn't tell any one that! Aunt Ann and Uncle John invited all the Belgians from Midbury to a party, and it was good to see how they brightened up and enjoyed it, poor things! May and I helped entertain the children—I liked that. On Christmas Eve we took presents to the wounded at the hospital, and then we found out that, without saying a word about it at home, Uncle John had sent them a gramophone."
 
"Capital! He always was kindness itself, and Aunt Ann too. But they used to have few interests outside their own household, as well as I remember; now, judging from all I hear, they seem to have a good many."
 
"It is strange you should have said that, father, for I heard Uncle John say something very like it himself the other day. He was talking to Aunt Ann, and he said, 'The war seems to have taken us out of ourselves, Ann.'"
 
"What answer did Aunt Ann make?"
 
"She said, 'There are so many to be cared for and helped, and comforted, and so much work to be done.' She's busy making sand-bags now, you know. Oh, father, this cruel, cruel war! Oh, I do hope it will not last much longer!"
 
There was a minute's silence during which Captain Basset pressed the little hand within his arm closer to his side; then he said quietly: "These are very dark days, but God is always with us. We must 'trust in Him at all times.' I read the other day these words: 'If the sun is going down look up to the stars. If the earth is dark keep your eye on heaven.' You will try to do that?"
 
"I will! I do! That is fighting the good fight, isn't it?"
 
Captain Basset assented. Before there was time for anything more to be said May appeared at the house door and beckoned them indoors to tea.
 
Mr. Basset, with his nephew and the two little girls, went to church in the evening, whilst his sister remained at home with Donald. On their return the church-goers found Donald in the hall, having evidently grown impatient waiting for them.
 
"How late you are!" he exclaimed, addressing May, who was looking her brightest; "you cannot have come straight home!"
 
"We met several people we knew and stopped talking to them," she answered, "that delayed us. I'm afraid you've had a dull evening."
 
"Much you care if I have!" he muttered, adding, "If you hadn't been selfish you'd have offered to stay at home with me!"
 
The words were intended for May's ears alone, but some one else heard them. As the little girls ran upstairs to take off their hats and jackets and Mr. Basset turned into the drawing-room, Captain Basset laid his hand on Donald's shoulder, and said very quietly—
 
"Why try to make that little sister of yours unhappy? I saw the brightness fade from her face as you spoke to her. I don't think she deserved to be called selfish."
 
Donald flushed hotly. He admired Captain Basset as a brave soldier, and would have liked to have had his good opinion. Captain Basset continued—
 
"I have heard how lovingly she waited on you during your illness and what a kind little sister she is. Never try to wound a tender heart, my boy! It is most cowardly to do that!"
 
"I suppose you consider me a coward, then?" Donald suggested, rather resentfully.
 
"I expect you are more thoughtless than cowardly. I understand you wanted to be a soldier?"
 
"Yes, but I shall never be one now!" The boy's voice was slightly tremulous. "I couldn't do long marches with my lame leg—and I shall always be lame, you know. Oh, it is hard!"
 
"It is," Captain Basset agreed, "but if it is God's will—" He paused, for the boy had made an impatient gesture, then, after a brief hesitation, he proceeded— "If it is God's will that you should always be lame, do try to bear your cross bravely like a Christian soldier! Think of the many men who have come back from France and Flanders disabled for life—"
 
"Ah, but they have done some fighting!" Donald broke in. "Every one knows them for brave men!"
 
At that moment Jane appeared in the hall to sound the supper gong. During supper Donald seemed in a rather subdued frame of mind. May watched him anxiously, but he did not show ill-temper to her again that evening. He was really ashamed that Captain Basset should have overheard his unkind remark to his sister, and ashamed of the remark as well.
 
It was later than usual when the household at the Glen retired to rest that night, for, as Miss Basset said with a break in her voice, who could tell when they might see dear Paul again? In the drawing-room, after prayers, Josephine sat on a stool at her father's feet, her head resting against his knees. She was silent now. Indeed she feared to speak, for her throat seemed to swell every time she attempted to do so, and she dreaded lest she should burst into tears. Surely the clock on the mantelpiece ticked quicker than usual! How fast the precious minutes flew!
 
By and by, obeying a meaning glance from Miss Basset, May rose, said "good night," and went off to bed. Donald followed her example shortly afterwards; but Josephine did not move till her father remarked that if she did not go and get a night's good rest she would be "all mops and brooms" in the morning.
 
"And I want to take away with me the remembrance of your face at its brightest," he added; whereupon she rose quickly, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then, without one backward glance, left the room.
 
Captain Basset had arranged to travel by a train leaving Midbury about noon next day, and Josephine had heard the order given for Barnes to get the pony-carriage in readiness to drive to the railway station at eleven o'clock. She decided before she fell asleep that she would ask permission to drive into Midbury with her father and see him off at the railway station herself. So in the morning, whilst the family was at breakfast, she made her request.
 
"May I see you off, father?" she asked eagerly. "You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"
 
"Oh, my dear, don't you think it would be better if you said good-bye to him here?" suggested Miss Basset quickly, before her nephew could reply. "Your uncle is going to drive him into Midbury, and I'm sure it would upset them both very much if you made a scene—I mean if you broke down and cried."
 
"As if I would!" Josephine exclaimed reproachfully, her cheeks flushing.
 
"Well, I know I should," Miss Basset admitted, shaking her head and sighing. "But what does Paul wish himself?" she asked, looking at her nephew.
 
"I should like Josephine to come to the railway station with me," he answered, smiling; "I took it for granted she would."
 
"May I, Uncle John?" Josephine asked eagerly, appealing to Mr. Basset.
 
"Why, of course, my dear, if you wish it," he answered. "Eleven o'clock punctually mind!" As though it was likely Josephine would forget!
 
After breakfast May and Donald went to the schoolroom as usual to await Miss Cummings' arrival. The governess had not heard of the visitor at the Glen, so great was her surprise when the Raes greeted her with the news that Captain Basset had been there for the week-end and was leaving that morning.
 
"Josephine's to have a half-holiday to go and see him off," May said, "but I suppose we must do lessons as usual. I don't feel very workish to-day though."
 
For once in a way Miss Cummings was inclined to be lenient with her pupils. A little before eleven o'clock Captain Basset came into the schoolroom to say good-bye to May and Donald, and Miss Cummings was introduced to him. Then, shortly after he had gone, the wheels of the pony-carriage were heard, and May exclaimed—
 
"Oh, Miss Cummings, do, do let us go to the window and look out!"
 
"Very well," Miss Cummings agreed. "And I think we'll stop work for the morning," she added, "things are so unsettling."
 
She followed her pupils to the window, which they opened. Leaning out, they could see the pony-carriage at the front door, with Tommy between the shafts, Barns standing by.
 
In a minute Mr. Basset came out of the house, and, having taken the reins from Barnes, settled himself in the driver's seat. He was followed by Josephine, and some minutes later by Captain Basset. The latter looked up to the schoolroom window and saluted, as, having seated himself opposite his little daughter, the carriage moved away.
 
"I like him!" May exclaimed heartily. "He's so nice and friendly; I do hope he'll soon get leave again. I wonder where Aunt Ann is—why she didn't go out to see him off?"
 
"I expect she's crying somewhere," Donald answered; "I saw at breakfast that her eyes kept filling with tears."
 
"Let us go and find her and persuade her to come out in the garden with us, shall we?" suggested May.
 
Miss Cummings agreed. Accordingly governess and pupils went downstairs together, and found Miss Basset weeping in the dining-room.
 
May ran to her and kissed her with ready sympathy, whilst the governess explained that lessons had been stopped for the morning, adding that she hoped Miss Basset did not mind.
 
"No, no," the old lady answered, wiping her eyes, "I understand. Dear me, oh, dear me!"
 
"It's beautifully sunny out-of-doors," said May; "do come out into the garden with us, Aunt Ann!"
 
"Very well, dear, I will," Miss Basset replied, "I'm foolish to cry, I know. Oh, I do hope Josephine won't break down at the last—when the moment of parting from her father comes at the station, I mean. I am so afraid she will!"
 
Miss Basset need not have been afraid. Josephine's heart was one big ache when the moment of parting came, but her great unselfish love for her father made her determined not to distress him. She put her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other; then he placed her hand in Mr. Basset's, and sprang into the train just as it was on the point of starting. His last glimpse of Josephine showed her standing looking after the departing train, smiling and waving her kerchief to him. Thus in the future he to picture her—the brave little daughter who was dearer to him than all the world.
CHAPTER VIII "A REAL PLUCKY LITTLE MAID!"

 
"DONALD, Donald! Oh, there you are! I've had a letter from Mrs. Ford by the afternoon post, and she says she's writing to Aunt Ann to ask if she may invite you to tea sometimes!"
 
The speaker was Josephine. She had come hurrying into the kitchen garden in search of Donald, who was standing by watching his sister weeding the corner which was her own garden. It was shaded by a big apple tree and did not get enough sunshine to grow flowers; but ferns flourished there, and May had turned it from a waste corner into a beautiful fernery.
 
It was April, the week after Easter, and very soon Donald would be going back to boarding-school at Exeter. He had discarded his crutch altogether now.
 
"Oh, I say, how jolly of her!" he replied, his blue eyes sparkling. "Did you put it to her that she might?" he asked.
 
Josephine shook her dark head smilingly.
 
"No," she said, "but I told her that you had no friends in Exeter. She's taken a little furnished house, you know, and is doing war work in different ways—nursing, and attending at the stations with refreshments for the wounded as the Red Cross trains go through." Her face saddened as she spoke of the Red Cross trains.
 
"Oh, Josephine, I forgot to tell you something!" May exclaimed. "Who do you think is helping at the soldier's hospital at Midbury now? But you'll never guess! Mrs. Cummings! Yes, actually! She met Aunt Ann in Midbury yesterday and told her so."
 
"I shouldn't like Mrs. Cummings to nurse me," remarked Donald, "she'd give me the doldrums."
 
"But she's doing cooking, not nursing," May explained; "she told Aunt Ann that with her daughter generally away the best part of the day she could well spare the time to help at the hospital. Aunt Ann says she seemed much brighter than usual; she thought it must be because she had found something to take her thoughts from herself."
 
"When are we going to see Miss Cummings, May?" asked Josephine. "You know we told her we would call to see her during the holidays, and a week of them has gone. Couldn't we go to-morrow afternoon?"
 
"I should think so," May answered; "we could walk into the town early, look at the shops, and then call on Miss Cummings. If she's at home she'll be sure to want us to stay to tea."
 
Accordingly the following afternoon, about four o'clock, found the two little girls at the door of their governess' home. In response to May's knock Margaret Cummings herself came to the door. Her grave face lit up with a smile at sight of her visitors; she was evidently glad to see them.
 
"Oh, come in, come in!" she cried hospitably. Then, as they obeyed and followed her into the front sitting-room, she drew chairs for them into the little bay window which commanded a view of the road, and said: "Mother will be here presently—she's at the hospital. You must stop to tea. I've put the kettle on."
 
"We intended to stay if you asked us," Josephine replied frankly, "didn't we, May?"
 
May assented.
 
"Aunt Ann said we might," she remarked; "but she thought that perhaps you would not want us—that you had enough of us in term time."
 
The young governess laughed. "I am very pleased to see you," she declared, "very pleased indeed! Are you enjoying the holidays?"
 
"Oh, yes!" May answered. "Aunt Ann has been taking us for some nice drives, and we have been doing a good bit of gardening."
 
"Uncle John has given me a piece of ground for my very own," Josephine said, "and May has helped me to put it in order. I heard from father yesterday, Miss Cummings. He is quite safe and well."
 
"I am so glad, dear! Oh, here's mother! Now I'll go and make the tea."
 
Mrs. Cummings was pleased to find that her daughter had visitors. She sat down and talked to them about her new work till they were called into the back sitting-room to tea. There she presided at the tea-table, and for once in a way said nothing of a depressing nature. By and by she mentioned the fact that her daughter spent her Sunday afternoons at the hospital. "She sings to the soldiers, you know," she said; "they never tire of listening to her."
 
"Why, I didn't even know you could sing!" May exclaimed, regarding her governess with so much astonishment that she broke into a merry laugh.
 
"She has a beautiful voice," remarked Mrs. Cummings, "but she never sang in public till lately. It was Dr. Farrant who persuaded her to sing at the hospital, and now she likes doing it, don't you, Margaret?"
 
Her daughter assented. "It makes me very happy to see my singing gives pleasure," she said. "Last Sunday I sang 'Fight the good fight,'" she continued, with a smile at Josephine; "I generally choose well-known hymns and ask the soldiers to join in singing them."
 
"And do they?" questioned Josephine eagerly.
 
"Oh, yes! Of course some do not know the words, but those who do enjoy to sing with me. And then every one joins in singing 'God save the King.'"
 
After tea a move was made into the front sitting-room, and shortly afterwards the visitors rose to leave. Their governess said she would go part way home with them, and accompanied them as far as Tor hill, where she turned back.
 
"I used to think I could never like Miss Cummings," May said gravely, as she and Josephine walked on towards the Glen; "but, do you know, I believe I'm getting quite fond of her? I've found out since the war began how really kindhearted she is. See how she's helped us with our work for the poor Belgians, and the soldiers! And it's kind of her to sing at the hospital, isn't it?—especially as she's rather a shy sort of person? Oh, here comes Donald to meet us! Oh, I wonder if he will ever be able to walk better than that? It's dreadful to think he will always be lame!"
 
"Here you are at last!" was Donald's greeting.
 
"At last?" echoed May. "Why, it isn't late! We've had tea with Miss Cummings and her mother. Aunt Ann said we might."
 
"I came to meet you to warn you that there's a bull straying about the lanes somewhere," the boy said; "I knew you'd be scared if you met him."
 
"I should think so!" cried May, who was afraid of all horned cattle, even cows. "But how do you know?"
 
"I was standing at the garden gate when a boy came along and told me," Donald explained; "he said it was Farmer Bond's bull, and that the farmer and several men were searching for him. He broke out of a meadow, it seems."
 
"Oh, let us get home as soon as we can!" cried May nervously. She had turned pale and was all of a shake. "I know Farmer Bond's bull is a savage one!" she added.
 
Donald looked at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, and laughed.
 
"It would be no laughing matter if we encountered the bull and he turned upon us," Josephine said; "May is right, let us hurry home."
 
"Listen!" exclaimed May. "Oh, he's coming! Run! Oh, run!"
 
From a lane at no great distance, which led into the high road, came the sounds of men's voices shouting and a dog barking. The little girls began to run, and Donald followed them—he could not run on account of his lame knee, but he might have quickened his footsteps if he had liked.
 
"You little cowards!" he shouted, "I'm not going to hurry! I'm not afraid of—"
 
He broke off abruptly. He had been walking close to the hedge, and had caught his foot in a trailing bramble. The next instant he measured his length on the ground.
 
Meanwhile the little girls had reached a five-barred gate. May climbed it nimbly, and dropped into the field on the other side. Josephine was about to follow her example when she glanced back to look for Donald, and saw, to her dismay—for the sounds which had alarmed her and May were drawing nearer—what had happened.
 
"Quick! quick!" cried May. "Where's Donald?"
 
"He's fallen, but he's getting up," Josephine answered. "Oh, May, the bull's coming! I see it! And a sheep-dog after it! Run, Donald, run!"
 
But Donald, pale to the lips, had sunk down on the ground again. Josephine darted back the road and seized him by the arm.
 
"Get up, get up!" she cried imperatively, "the bull's coming!"
 
"I know!" he groaned. "Don't stop! I've twisted my bad knee! I'll hide in the ditch—the brute mayn't see me!"
 
As he spoke he rolled himself into a shallow ditch by the hedge. There was no time for Josephine to return to the gate; so she took refuge in the ditch too, and crouched beside the boy. Never in her life had she been so frightened before.
 
Would the bull see them? It seemed impossible that he would not. He was galloping along the road, bellowing loudly, evidently infuriated by the big sheep-dog who was trying to get ahead of him to turn him. With lowered head and fixed gaze he came on; but his fixed gaze was not on the terror-stricken occupants of the ditch, but on a little figure which stood right in the centre of the road in front of the five-barred gate, waving a white pocket-handkerchief. A moment more and he had passed by, whilst the little figure fled to the gateway and vanished. Another moment and the bull and dog had vanished too.
 
At this point in the proceedings two men, panting with running, appeared upon the scene, one being the bull's owner, Farmer Bond. Josephine scrambled out of the ditch, and ran with them to the gateway. The gate was closed, and safely imprisoned in the field beyond was the bull, guarded by the sheep-dog, who had ceased barking, whilst outside the gate, leaning against it for support and nearly in a state of collapse, stood May.
 
Josephine put her arms around her, hugging and kissing her, whereupon she burst into tears; she tried to check them when Donald, white and shaking, appeared upon the scene, anxiety on her account having made him impervious to pain for the time being.
 
The farmer whistled to his dog, who left the bull and came to him; then he looked at May and inquired—
 
"Was it you who opened the gate and let the bull into the field, missie?"
 
She nodded assent, but it was some minutes before she grew sufficiently composed to explain how she had managed. She had found the gate was not locked, arid as soon as she had realized Josephine and Donald's peril, had deliberately placed herself in the middle of the road and attracted the bull's attention. That done she had opened the gate wide, and stood behind it whilst the sheep-dog had driven the bull into the field; then she had come into the road again, and closed the gate.
 
"Well, missie, all I can say is that you're a real plucky little maid!" Farmer Bond declared admiringly.
 
"Oh, no!" May cried; "you wouldn't say that if you knew how frightened I was!"
 
"That made it all the pluckier of you to keep your head and act as you did. The bull's safe enough where he is, and by and by when he's quieted down we shan't have any difficulty in head-roping him and taking him home. I am more than sorry he should have given you all such a fright, and very grateful to you, missie, for what you've done. I hope you feel better now?"
 
May glanced at Farmer Bond's concerned countenance and tried to smile.
 
"Yes, thank you," she answered, but her voice sounded faint and tremulous.
 
"And you, sir?" the farmer asked, turning to Donald, who suddenly flushed crimson, "you are all of a shake—"
 
"I fell and twisted my injured knee," interposed Donald hastily; "that's why I was obliged to hide in the ditch."
 
"Oh, Donald," cried May, "have you hurt your knee badly? I'm afraid you have! Then you ought not to try to walk home!"
 
"Oh, as to that, my man and I will take him home," said Farmer Bond; "we'll cross arms and clasp hands, and so make a seat for him to ride on."
 
Thus was Donald conveyed to the Glen. He was in a good deal of pain, but Dr. Farrant, who was immediately sent for, said if he rested his knee a few days it would be as well as it was before. The boy was greatly relieved to hear that, for he was most anxious that nothing should happen to prevent his return to school.
 
During the next few days he followed the doctor's orders and rested his knee, May waiting on him with unselfish attention. Many times she caught his gaze fixed on her thoughtfully, and on one of these occasions she asked—
 
"What are you thinking of, Donald?"
 
"Of you," he answered promptly; "I was thinking that very likely you saved my life and Josephine's; I believe the bull would have seen us and gone for us if you hadn't stood out in the road as you did. Dr. Farrant said you were a real heroine when he heard about it. And yet you say you were frightened?"
 
"Oh, dreadfully!—when I saw you and Josephine in the ditch and the bull coming! But I prayed to God for help, and then it flashed upon me what to do. So you see God answered my prayer."
 
The boy was silent. It was very wonderful that his timid little sister should have proved herself capable of such courage.
 
"If I was brave it was only because I felt God was near me," she added after a pause; "yes, that was how it was, I am sure!"
 
CHAPTER IX SERIOUSLY WOUNDED

 
"OH, how lovely the roses are!" exclaimed Josephine softly. "And, oh, how I wish father was here to see them!"
 
"I expect there are roses where he is," answered May, "for I saw a picture in a newspaper yesterday showing part of a ruined village—it had been shelled —and there were roses climbing over a cottage wall I noticed."
 
It was a beautiful evening in June, and the two little girls, having learnt their lessons for the next day, had come into the garden for a short while before supper and seated themselves on a seat within call of the house.
 
Everywhere were roses in full bloom—standard and half standards and bush roses in the garden beds, ramblers twining over arches and stretching out trailing branches covered with clusters of flowers, whilst the porch of the house was decked with a magnificent "cloth of gold" which Mr. Basset declared to be the finest in the county.
 
Josephine had been enjoying the peace and beauty of the garden; but at May's mention of the ruined village a shadow fell on her face, and a wistful expression crept into her dark eyes.
 
"I hope I shall hear from father soon," she said, "I have not heard from him now for ten days, and I can't help feeling very, very anxious—knowing his regiment has been in action. I notice that Uncle John is anxious too; he is always on the look out for the post."
 
"There may be a letter from Captain Basset in the post now," said May hopefully; "you know once before two letters from him, written at different dates, arrived at the same time."
 
"So they did!" Josephine replied, her face brightening; "I am glad you have reminded me of that!"
 
"I heard from Donald this afternoon," May remarked, drawing a letter from her pocket and opening it; "I want to read you the part where he speaks of Mrs. Ford, shall I?"
 
"Oh, yes, do, please!" Josephine answered eagerly. So May read aloud—
 
"You might tell Josephine that I went to tea again on Saturday with her friend, Mrs. Ford. She is a real, good sort, and I like her. She has promised to come and watch a cricket match we are going to have with some wounded soldiers—of course they are nearly well now or they wouldn't be able to play. She says she thinks I walk better than I did at the beginning of the term, and I hope she's right. But I don't mind so much about my lame knee as I did. I am thinking now of being a doctor, then, if there's a war, I shall be able to go to the front and attend to the wounded. Mrs. Ford says the doctors have often to do their work under fire, and they are quite as brave as the soldiers. I like talking to Mrs. Ford."
 
"Oh, I knew he would!" Josephine said, looking pleased, "every one does! She's such good company—so bright and always seems to know what it interests one to talk about. Should you like Donald to be a doctor?"
 
"Yes," May assented, "I should like him to be one like Dr. Farrant who is, oh, ever so good and kind. Why, there he is! Dr. Farrant, I mean! How strange that he should appear just as I was speaking of him! I wonder what he has come for? It's rather late to pay a call, isn't it? But perhaps he happened to be motoring past here and thought he'd stop and come in. Let us go and speak to him."
 
"No," Josephine replied quickly, observing that the doctor had caught sight of them but had turned his face sharply away and was making straight for the front door; "I don't think he wants to talk to us now—he seems in a hurry."
 
"He certainly does," agreed May; "he wants to see Uncle John about something, I expect."
 
This proved to be the case, for when they entered the house a few minutes later they heard the doctor's voice in the study. He remained nearly half an hour with Mr. Basset, leaving shortly before supper-time.
 
"What did Dr. Farrant want?" Miss Basset asked her brother during supper. "You found you couldn't persuade him to stay to supper, I suppose?"
 
"No," Mr. Basset said, answering the latter question and ignoring the first.
 
"Uncle John, did you tell him I'd heard from Donald to-day?" inquired May.
 
Mr. Basset shook his head. "Donald was not mentioned, my dear," he replied.
 
It was evident to every one that he was in a very pre-occupied mood. His sister remarked that he ate very little; but when she asked him if he did not feel well he assured her that he had never been better in his life, only he had no appetite.
 
"Neither has Josephine," sighed Miss Basset; "I know why it is—because she's not heard from her father. Oh, I do hope we shall hear from him to-morrow! Anxiety and suspense are so wearing! Dear me, oh, dear me!"
 
Josephine went to bed that night very heavyhearted. She lay awake some time thinking of her father and praying for him. He had not told her, but she knew from what she had read in the newspapers, that he had had a great many hardships and much sorrow to endure of late, for his regiment had suffered badly. Very earnestly, with all the fervour of her anxious heart, she prayed—
 
 
 
Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
 
Be his light and guide:
 
Keep, oh keep him, in his weakness
 
At Thy side.
 
 
 
When in sorrow, when in danger,
 
When in loneliness,
 
In Thy love look down and comfort
 
His distress.
 
 
 
May the joy of Thy salvation
 
Be his strength and stay;
 
May he love and may he praise Thee.
 
Day by day.
 
 
 
Every morning, on rising, she was in the habit of reading a few verses from the Bible, and one of the verses she had read to-day had been: "We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." She remembered it now, and was comforted.
 
Though she did not sleep till late, Josephine was downstairs before May the following morning, and waiting in the garden when the postman arrived. Her face was alight with expectancy as she ran to meet the man; but it was grave and troubled when she returned to the house, for neither of the two envelopes the postman had given her bore her father's handwriting.
 
"Another disappointment, Uncle John," she said, with a little choke in her voice, as she met Mr. Basset in the hall, "there's nothing from father. Here are two letters, both addressed to you. One, I think, is only a circular."
 
"Yes, only a circular," Mr. Basset said, taking the letters from her and glancing at them hurriedly, "and the other is of no importance."
 
He turned sharply away from her and went into the breakfast-room as he spoke. It struck Josephine that his manner was strange, and one thing was quite evident—he did not wish to talk to her. She felt hurt, for hitherto he had always been most sympathetic concerning her father.
 
In the middle of the morning, whilst the little girls were at lessons with their governess, Dr. Farrant arrived at the Glen again. This time he saw Miss Basset as well as her brother, and by and by Josephine was sent for to come to the study. She guessed at once that news had been received of her father, and flew downstairs with white cheeks and a wildly beating heart.
 
In the doorway of the study she paused. Miss Basset was seated in an easy chair, her handkerchief held to her eyes, and Dr. Farrant and Mr. Basset were standing by the writing-table, the latter with a telegram in his hand.
 
It was Dr. Farrant who stepped quickly to Josephine's side, and drew her into the room.
 
"My dear," he said, "your uncle wishes me to tell you that there is news of your father—"
 
"Is he dead?" Josephine interrupted, her voice betraying the agony of her mind. "That's what I want to know! Is he dead?"
 
"No, no!" Dr. Farrant assured her. Then, as she drew a long, gasping breath of relief, he continued: "But he has been wounded and sent back to Boulogne."
 
He placed her in a chair as he spoke. Had he not done so she would have fallen, for she had turned dizzy and faint. In a few minutes she felt better, and looked up appealingly into the kind eyes which were watching her so earnestly and sympathetically.
 
"Ah!" Dr. Farrant said, "you are a true soldier's daughter, I see; you are going to show yourself a brave girl!"
 
"Will father die?" Josephine questioned; "oh, do you think he will die?"
 
"Oh, my dear, don't suggest it!" sobbed Miss Basset; "oh, no, no, no!"
 
Josephine paid no heed to her aunt. All her attention was given to Dr. Farrant.
 
"I will tell you all we know," he said; "do not fear that I will keep anything back. It was reported in an evening paper yesterday that your father was wounded, and Mr. Basset asked me to ascertain for him if the report was correct. As we were not sure we thought it better not to mention it to you last night. First thing this morning I telegraphed to the War Office, and have heard in reply that Captain Basset has been wounded by shrapnel in the face and head—"
 
"Seriously?" broke in Josephine. Then, as Dr. Farrant gravely assented, she uttered a faint moaning cry and covered her face with her hands.
 
"Remember seriously wounded may not mean mortally wounded," Dr. Farrant hastened to remind her; "do not make up your mind that your father will not be restored to you."
 
"No, I will not!" The poor child uncovered her face. "Oh, I hope—I pray that he is not suffering much! My dear, dear father! Oh, I wish I could go to him! But of course I can't!"
 
"Comfort yourself with the thought that he is being skilfully tended at Boulogne. You may be sure of that."
 
All this time Mr. Basset had not uttered a word, but had remained standing by the writing-table, his eyes fixed on the telegram in his hand. Now he turned to his sister and said: "Do try to compose yourself, Ann; this is no time for giving way to grief. There's much to be thought of—and done."
 
"I can't help crying," answered Miss Basset, "you know I was never very brave. And I'm so sorry for Josephine!"
 
Josephine rose, and, crossing the room, kissed her aunt tenderly.
 
"Dear Aunt Ann!" she whispered, then her eyes filled with tears, choking sobs rose in her throat, and the next minute, clasped in Aunt Ann's loving arms, she was weeping in such an abandonment of grief that the old lady was startled and frightened.
 
"Let her cry," Dr. Farrant said, as Miss Basset gave him a glance of alarm, "it will do her a world of good."
 
By the time Josephine's tears were exhausted the doctor had gone, and Mr. Basset, who had seen him off at the front door, was examining a railway time-table at his writing-table. As Josephine lifted her tear-stained face from Miss Basset's shoulder, her uncle remarked—
 
"I want you to come and pack my portmanteau for me, Ann; I'm going a journey."
 
"A journey?" echoed Miss Basset in amazement, for her brother had not been a night away from home for years. "A journey?" she repeated. "Why, where are you going?"
 
"To Boulogne," he answered briefly.
 
"To Boulogne? Why, you'll have to cross the Channel! Have you forgotten the mines? And you don't talk French! Oh, John, you can't go! You'll have to get a passport, too, and—"
 
"My dear Ann," interposed Mr. Basset, "will you please come and pack my portmanteau? I am not accustomed to travelling, I admit; nevertheless, God willing, I'm going to Boulogne."
CHAPTER X JOY AND SORROW

 
"I WONDER if I shall find that they have heard I from Mr. Basset," thought Margaret Cummings, as she entered the grounds of the Glen one fine June morning, some few days after the master of the house had set out on his journey to Boulogne; "I hope so I am sure—whatever news he may have had to send. Anything is better than suspense. Poor Josephine! She's very brave, but the sight of her white, set face shows what she's enduring. Ah, there she is beneath the porch, on the look out for me! Then there's news! Now, what is it?"
 
From under the porch a slim figure, clad in a blue cotton dress, darted forth into the brilliant June sunshine to meet her, with a radiant countenance eloquent of happiness and joy. Gone were the white, set features of the previous day! The governess paused, a feeling of intense relief filling her heart, and cried—
 
"Oh, my dear, you have had good news then?"
 
"Yes!" Josephine replied, "the best of news! Father is going to recover! The doctors say so! His life is out of danger! And before long he will be brought back to a hospital in England, and—and, oh, hasn't God been merciful to me?"
 
Though generally one of the most undemonstrative of people, Margaret Cummings threw her arms around Josephine and kissed her. Her caress was returned warmly and gratefully.
 
"We've not had a very long letter from Uncle John," Josephine continued, "because he's coming home almost immediately, and he'll be able to explain all about father then. He says he can do no good by staying at Boulogne; but he's glad he went, for he wouldn't have been satisfied if he hadn't seen father. Do you know, he had to have his photograph taken in different positions, and there were other delays before he could leave England? But when, at last, he reached Boulogne all his difficulties were over, for there he fell in with a French gentleman who could speak English and helped him in every way he could. Wasn't that kind and good of the French gentleman? And he and Uncle John were strangers to each other, too!"
 
"It seems to me that in these days kindness and goodness are constantly appearing unexpectedly! I am glad Mr. Basset was so fortunate as to meet a friend in need. I suppose Miss Basset is less uneasy about her brother now?"
 
"Yes, I think so. And, oh, she is so delighted that father is going on well! Fancy! Father was well enough to talk to Uncle John, and he sent me his love and a message which Uncle John didn't write but is keeping to tell me when he gets home."
 
As governess and pupil entered the house together Miss Basset came out of the dining-room, her face wreathed in smiles; she said that as it was most certainly a red-letter day for them all she hoped Miss Cummings would have no objection to taking a holiday, and added that she was going into Midbury herself and would drive her home.
 
"Thank you, Miss Basset, that will be very kind of you," the governess answered, adding earnestly: "I cannot tell you how deeply glad I am that you have had such cheering news."
 
Oh, that was a happy holiday! Josephine and May spent the morning in the garden amongst the roses; and in the afternoon they went for a long walk, returning through Durley Dell, where they sat for an hour on a mossy bank in the shade of a beech tree, and talked.
 
"Perhaps I may bring father here one day before long," Josephine said softly, "for Aunt Ann says of course he will come to the Glen as soon as he is convalescent. Oh, I hope he will come before the roses are gone! He will so love to see them! I remember his telling me once that the Glen roses were the most beautiful he had ever seen."
 
On their way home from Durley Dell they called for a few minutes at Vine Cottage to inquire for Mrs. Rumbelow. The old women had heard from Jane that Captain Basset had been wounded, and received the news that he was doing well with so much pleasure that Josephine was deeply touched by the feeling she showed, and determined that, if all went well, some time she would take her father to see her.
 
Next day Mr. Basset arrived at home. He reached the Glen in a cab from Midbury railway station about six o'clock in the evening. Miss Basset had received a telegram in the morning saying at what time she was to expect him, so she was waiting at the front door with May and Josephine to greet him on his arrival.
 
"Oh, John, I'm so rejoiced you've come back safely!" she cried, as she kissed him, adding quickly: "And dear Paul's really better?"
 
"Yes," he answered, "really better, thank God!"
 
He turned to the little girls and kissed them affectionately, then, taking Josephine by the hand, led her into the drawing-room, the others following. Josephine, searching his face with eager, anxious eyes, saw that it looked pale and weary, and very sad.
 
"Please tell me all about father," she said tremulously, "I want to know all. Oh, please, please, don't keep anything back!"
 
"I will not," he assured her. He seated himself on a sofa and drew her down by his side. "As you know your father was injured in the face and head," he continued, "and he had not long regained consciousness before I saw him. He is in a large hotel at Boulogne, which is being used as a hospital. My dear—" his voice faltered with deep emotion— "I shall never forget the cry of pleasure Paul gave when he heard my voice, and I shall always be thankful that I obeyed the impulse which prompted me to go to him at once! I saw him twice. On the second occasion he said he did not wish me to remain longer—you see I could do no good there and was only in the way. Poor dear fellow! The doctors say his face will not be much disfigured—"
 
"Oh, I am glad of that!" Josephine broke in joyfully, "I've been thinking that it would be, and I know Aunt Ann has too!"
 
"And they say also that in their opinion in a few months he will be quite restored to health," Mr. Basset proceeded, taking no apparent heed of the interruption, "for he has a splendid constitution. The trouble is about his sight."
 
The old man's clasp on the little hand he held tightened as he spoke. He glanced significantly at his sister, who had sank into an easy chair, and shook his head slightly. Josephine noted the gesture, and a sudden chill feeling of dread fell upon her heart. She shivered as she asked—
 
"Do you mean that his eyes are hurt, Uncle John?"
 
"Yes, my dear," Mr. Basset admitted sadly, "and badly hurt. He knows it himself—spoke of it, in fact. It is a great blow to him, of course, but your father is a brave man and a Christian. He bade me tell you the truth—that he will never see again—"
 
"Oh, John!" interrupted Miss Basset, "how shocking! Oh, poor, poor Paul! What a terrible affliction to fall upon him! Oh, I never thought of this! Dear me, oh, dear me!" She sat wringing her hands, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
 
"Do you mean that my father is blind?" asked Josephine slowly, as though her mind was incapable of grasping the truth, plainly though Mr. Basset had spoken. There was an expression of horror on her face. "Yes!" she cried, as her uncle bowed his head silently, "he is blind! Oh, father, father, father!"
 
She snatched her hand from Mr. Basset's and rose to her feet. May, full of sympathy, hastened to her; but she put her aside, and ran out of the room.
 
"Don't follow her—you'd better not," advised Mr. Basset, as May stood hesitating; "for the time, at any rate, she will be best alone. I've so dreaded telling her, poor little soul!"
 
Josephine had run out into the rose-scented garden and hidden herself in a summerhouse which occupied a secluded corner. She cast herself on the ground on her knees, in an agony of grief, her head bowed on her arms which she rested on one of the two wooden chairs she and May used when—as they often did—they came there to do their war work. Heavy sobs shook her slender form; but it was some minutes before tears came to her relief, then it seemed as though they would never stop.
 
"Oh, father, poor, poor father!" she moaned over and over again; "oh, what will he do?—what will he do?"
 
Her heart bled with pity for her father. She pictured him as she had seen him last, looking back at her from the departing train at Midbury railway station. What a splendid soldier he had been! So full of strength and courage! She recalled how longingly his eyes had smiled at her! Beautiful eyes, so bright and brave! Now their light was quenched for ever!
 
By and by her tears ceased to flow, and she raised her head. Over the doorway of the summerhouse hung festoons of pink and white cluster roses, swaying gently in the summer breeze and making the air fragrant with their scent. Josephine noticed them with deepening pain.
 
"Father will never see them now," she thought, "never—never! And he will never more see the sunshine, or the starlight, or any of the beautiful sights he loved! Oh, poor father!"
 
She bowed her head once more on her arms, but she did not weep again; her passion of grief had spent itself. And so Mr. Basset found her, a picture of utter dejection, when, guessing where she had hidden, he, by and by, came to seek her.
 
"Josephine," he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder, "get up, my dear!" Then, as she obeyed, he made her take one chair, and seated himself on the other. "God has spared your dear father's life," he continued, "and thankfulness for that ought to soften this blow—"
 
"Oh, Uncle John, indeed I am thankful!" Josephine interposed; "but—but—oh, think what life will be to father without sight? He has always been so active and busy in every way! He isn't a man who likes to take things easily and let others work! And now—and now—oh, it will be dreadful for him!"
 
"My dear, don't say so! And don't think it! We will pray God to lighten your father's darkness, and I am sure He will. Now, I have not given you your father's message—almost the last words he said to me before I came away. It was this, 'Tell my little girl to remember that all things work together for good to them that love God, and so she mustn't grieve about me more than she can help.' You see, he realized the news of his loss of sight would be a sore blow to you."
 
"Oh, it has been, Uncle John! I—I haven't been a bit brave—father would be disappointed in me if he knew. But, oh, blindness seems so terrible! It is so hard to think of father—blind!"
 
Mr. Basset sighed.
 
"Very hard," he agreed. "But, now," he continued, "we mustn't stay here any longer, for supper's to be early to-night on my account, and you'll want to bathe your face, won't you?"
 
The two returned to the house together. Miss Basset and May saw them coming from the drawing-room window; and the latter hurried into the hall and went upstairs with Josephine.
 
"Dear," she whispered, her blue eyes tender with sympathy, "I'm so sorry—so very, very sorry for your father! Donald will be, too, when I write and tell him! Oh, it must be terrible to be blind!"
 
Josephine drew a quick breath, and assented. Then she told May the message her father had sent her, adding: "I'm going to try to do as he says and not grieve about him more than I can help. Perhaps, after all, the doctors have made a mistake and he may get his sight back after a time. If he doesn't—if it is God's will he should remain blind, then I know God will be with him."
 
"It is a great thing to feel that," May answered.
 
"Yes," Josephine agreed, "and the greatest comfort. Just for a little while I forgot it, though every day I pray—
 
 
 
"Jesus Saviour, let Thy presence
 
Be his light and guide,
 
Keep, oh keep him, in his weakness,
 
At Thy side."
 
 
 
"But, now I've had time to think and Uncle John has given me father's message, I know father's all right. He loves Jesus, and Jesus is at his side."
CHAPTER XI KEEPING A BRAVE HEART

 
FOR some weeks Josephine clung to the hope that the doctors had been mistaken and that her father might regain at any rate some glimmer of sight; but as time slipped by that hope died. It was July when Captain Basset was brought back to England to a London hospital. He remained there for six weeks, then, greatly to Josephine's disappointment, went to spend a short while at Brighton. There had been some talk of Miss Basset taking her little niece to London to see Captain Basset; but the old lady had become so nervous at the thought of zeppelins that the idea had been dropped.
 
Soon after Mr. Basset's return from France Mrs. Ford had spent a week-end at the Glen. Her visit had been not only a great pleasure to Josephine, but had cheered her wonderfully.
 
"You must keep a brave heart, my dear," she had said, "for your father will need help and encouragement. A heavy cross has been laid upon him, but many a cross brings a blessing with it, remember."
 
"I don't see how blindness could bring a blessing with it," Josephine had answered, and Mrs. Ford had said no more.
 
It was a bright hot morning in late August when Josephine, taking the letters from the postman in the garden, saw that there was one addressed to herself. Her heart gave a throb of mingled surprise and joy; for, though the handwriting on the envelope was sprawling and uncertain, she recognized it at once as her father's. Tearing open the envelope she read—
 
 
 
"MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,—"
 
"If all's well I shall be with you to-morrow."
 
"Your loving father,"
 
"PAUL BASSET."
 
 
 
She pressed her lips to the letter again and again; then darted into the house, and into the breakfast-room where the other members of the family were taking their seats at the table.
 
"Oh, what do you think?" she cried, "I've heard from father! He's written to me himself! Oh, isn't it wonderful? I never thought I should have a letter from him again! Oh, look, look!"
 
She allowed every one to examine the precious letter; then suddenly remembered the other letters the postman had given her, and handed them to Mr. Basset. One of these was from Captain Basset's servant—Warner he was called—whom the blind man had engaged in London. Warner was now at Brighton with his new master, who had instructed him to write to Mr. Basset.
 
"Paul is coming to-morrow," Mr. Basset said, after he had glanced through Warner's letter, "that is if we can make it convenient to have him—"
 
"Why, of course we can!" Miss Basset interposed. "I've had his rooms ready for him for weeks, as you know!"
 
Mr. Basset nodded smilingly.
 
"We'll send him a wire after breakfast," he said; "who'll take the message into Midbury for me?"
 
"I!" cried Donald quickly, adding: "And the girls can go with me if they like!"
 
Accordingly, directly after breakfast, the young people set off for the town. On the road they stopped at the blacksmith's for a few minutes to tell old Dicker that Captain Basset was expected on the morrow.
 
"Keep a good look out and you'll see him pass," Donald said, "most probably in the evening."
 
"And, if all's well, I shall be with him," Josephine said, "for Uncle John has promised to take me to meet him."
 
The blacksmith gave her a sympathetic glance. He was thinking if Josephine was his little daughter what he would feel if he was blind. Never to see her face again! His kind heart was very sorry for the blind father.
 
"Have you heard from your son lately?" May inquired.
 
"He was home last week, missie—his good-bye visit it was. He'll be off almost immediately—to the Dardanelles, I expect. We—his mother and I—felt saying good-bye to him—he being our only one."
 
"Yes, of course you did," Josephine answered, "I—oh, I know just how you felt! But I'm sure you didn't want to keep him at home!"
 
"No, no! We wouldn't like our boy to be out of the battle when it's one for right against might. Whether he comes back to us or not we shall know he's done his duty, and that's the great thing."
 
Arrived at Midbury, the young people went direct to the post office, where the telegram to Captain Basset was dispatched. On leaving there Josephine said—
 
"Do you think it's too early for us to call on Miss Cummings and her mother? I know they would be glad to hear when father's coming."
 
"It is rather early," May answered, "but we need not go in if they're busy."
 
Early as it was, Mrs. Cummings had already gone to the hospital. But her daughter was at home and pleased to see the bright faces which smiled at her when, in response to a vigorous rat-tat given by Donald, she opened the door. She insisted her visitors should come in; and in the sitting-room they found a little pale-faced Belgian girl, of about eight years of age, who looked at them with shy, interested, dark eyes.
 
"She is going to the Council School next term, so I'm having her here for a few hours every morning to teach her a little English so that things may be made easier for her," explained Miss Cummings.
 
"How kind of you!" said May. "And in your holidays, too!"
 
The young governess flushed.
 
"You see, I can't help the Belgians with money," she remarked frankly, "so I'm glad to find any little thing to do for them that I can. This poor child's father was a soldier who was killed early in the war."
 
"Has she a mother?" asked Josephine.
 
"Oh, yes! And there are two children younger than herself, and an old grandmother—all refugees from Louvain."
 
The little Belgian girl could not understand what was being said, but she understood the kind glances cast at her. Donald gave her a packet of sweets he had bought in the town. She flushed with pleasure as she took it, and thanked him in English; then, turning to Miss Cummings, spoke a few quick words in her native tongue.
 
"What does she say?" asked Donald, as the governess smiled and nodded.
 
"That she will share the sweets with her little sister and brother," was the reply.
 
"That's right!" said May. "Oh, Miss Cummings, we haven't told you our news yet! Captain Basset's coming to-morrow! Josephine and Uncle John are going to meet him at the railway station! It's all arranged. His new servant—Warner—is coming with him. Warner is accustomed to look after blind people, for he used to be an attendant in a blind institution."
 
Josephine winced. She was not yet able to think of her father as sightless without suffering a pang of pain. Sudden tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away, and bit her quivering lip.
 
"He is going to teach Captain Basset to read Braille," May continued, "and, oh, isn't it wonderful, Josephine has actually had a few lines from her father himself?"
 
"I will show you the letter sometime, Miss Cummings, but I haven't it with me, I put it away safely before I left home," Josephine said. She had quickly regained her composure. "I mean to keep it always," she added; "I shall treasure it as long as I live."
 
Margaret Cummings laid a kindly hand on her shoulder, and looked at her with an expression of great tenderness in her grey eyes. She did not speak; nevertheless Josephine realized that she sympathized with her and understood her, and impulsively bestowed upon her a grateful, affectionate kiss.
 
"I wanted you to know father was coming," she whispered, "because I felt certain you'd care!"
 
"And now I think we'd better be going," said May, "for Aunt Ann will be expecting us—she didn't know we should call here."
 
On their way home Donald, who had been unusually silent and thoughtful for some time, remarked—
 
"After all Miss Cummings is not such a very bad sort."
 
"A very bad sort!" echoed Josephine rather indignantly; "I should say she is a very good sort indeed!"
 
"Yes," agreed May, "but, somehow, before the war we didn't find it out."
 
"Look, there is Mrs. Rumbelow seated in the sunshine in her garden!" exclaimed Josephine as they approached Vine Cottage. "Do let us speak to her!"
 
The others were quite willing to do so, so they drew up at the garden gate and wished the old woman "good morning." She was seated on a wooden chair, an open letter in her hand from which she had glanced up on hearing footsteps and voices.
 
"Oh, please don't move," May said quickly, as Mrs. Rumbelow made a movement to rise, "we are only going to stop a minute or so. Don't you find the sunshine very hot?"
 
"Not too hot," Mrs. Rumbelow answered; "it's good for my poor old rheumaticy bones."
 
"I hope you get good news of your son?" questioned Josephine kindly.
 
"Yes, miss, thank you," was the answer, cheerfully spoken; "he's well and happy."
 
"Happy?" echoed May. "Why, he's in the trenches, isn't he?" She wondered how happiness could be possible under such circumstances.
 
Mrs. Rumbelow assented.
 
"I've a letter from him here," she said, "it came this morning. I've read it again and again. I'd like you to hear one part of it—then you'll understand maybe."
 
She took up the letter, which she had dropped on her lap, and read aloud—
 
"I feel I'm in the right place at last, mother, so don't you worry or fret. You know I never was religious, and I used to grow impatient with you when you'd beg me to repent of my sins and turn to God. Well, I want to tell you this—here, facing death, a change has come to me. The other day my chief pal was killed, and the night afterwards I prayed—I hadn't done that for years before; and it seemed as though there was really Some One here Who heard me, Who was very near, a Presence I couldn't see yet could feel. I believe Jesus came to me in answer to my prayers that night, and I believe He's with me still. So don't you trouble about me, mother."
 
Mrs. Rumbelow broke off, folded the letter carefully and put it in her pocket. Her lips were quivering, but her expression was one of thankfulness and joy.
 
"There is no need for you to trouble about him now, is there?" Josephine said gently.
 
"No, miss," the old woman answered, meeting her eyes in a look of understanding; "he may lose his life in the trenches, but, thank God, he has found his soul!"
 
"Captain Basset is coming to-morrow," remarked Donald, after a brief silence.
 
"I shall bring him to see you—" Josephine was beginning when she paused abruptly. "I was forgetting that he could not see you," she said, as the others looked at her inquiringly, adding, with a note of pain in her voice: "When I think of father it is difficult to picture him blind. And he will always be blind!"
 
"Not always," the old woman reminded her; "his eyes shall see the King in His beauty, shall they not?"
 
"Oh, yes!" Josephine cried, her face brightening, "thank you for reminding me of that! And Jesus has promised, 'He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness!'"
 
"He will keep His promise," Mrs. Rumbelow replied earnestly; "His word has never failed us and never will. No one is in darkness who has opened his heart to the patient, loving Saviour, for He will be a light to lighten his darkness and will abide with him for ever and ever."
 
"Yes," Josephine said softly, "I know!—oh, I know!"
CHAPTER XII TWO HEROES

 
"OH, Uncle John, I see him! I see him!"
 
So saying, Josephine darted along the down platform of the Midbury railway station, followed closely by Mr. Basset. The train for which they had been waiting for nearly half an hour had just slowed into the station, and from one of its carriages Captain Basset was carefully stepping, assisted by his servant. But for the shade he wore over his eyes he looked much as usual, and quite as erect and soldierly.
 
"Father!" Josephine cried, as she reached him, "here we are!—Uncle John and I!"
 
She put her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other; then Mr. Basset shook him by the hand—in silence, for the old man was too moved for the moment to speak.
 
"I guessed you two would come to meet me," Captain Basset said. "Warner, where are you?"
 
"Here, sir!"
 
Warner was a grey-haired man of about fifty, with an honest, cheerful face. He looked kind and trustworthy, Josephine thought.
 
"I've engaged a cab, Paul," said Mr. Basset, putting his nephew's hand on his arm; "let me take you to it."
 
"Thank you," Captain Basset replied. "Please see to the luggage, Warner."
 
Josephine followed her father and Mr. Basset out of the station into the hot sunshine of the August evening, and they took their seats in the waiting cab—Josephine beside her father, Mr. Basset on the seat opposite. The little girl's heart had swelled with pity as she had watched her father's uncertain footsteps and the clumsy manner in which he had entered the cab; and now her eyes filled with tears as she noted the painfully attentive way in which he was listening to every sound. It was a relief when Warner appeared, having arranged for the luggage to be conveyed to the Glen by the town carrier, and took his seat beside the driver. The next minute they had started for home.
 
"Oh, father," Josephine said, as she slipped her hand through her father's arm and nestled against him, "it's seemed ages waiting for you! We thought you would have come straight here from London."
 
"My object in going to Brighton was to visit some of my poor men who are in hospital there," he answered. "When I realized the pleasure it was to them to see and talk to me I felt more than glad that I had followed the impulse which had prompted me to go to them. Brave, splendid fellows! Even those who were worst injured made light of their wounds! Some, like me, will never draw a sword again, but I heard no word of complaint. Are we out of the town yet, Josephine?"
 
"Not quite, father; we are passing the mission church. As we go on shall I tell you where we are?"
 
"Please do. You will have to be eyes to me now, little daughter!"
 
Captain Basset pressed Josephine's hand closer to his side as he spoke; her heart was full to overflowing. Presently the little girl remarked that they had left the town, and by and by that they were in sight of Vine Cottage.
 
"And there's Mrs. Rumbelow standing at the garden gate!" she cried; "she's smiling all over her face and waving a pocket-handkerchief. Oh, father, I must take you to see her! She'll love to talk to you about her son!"
 
A few minutes later they reached the blacksmith's. Several men, including old Dicker, were standing around the forge; they came into the road as the cab appeared in sight, and raised a hearty cheer as it passed by.
 
"I did not expect this," Captain Basset said, a flush rising to his cheeks. "Who are the people?"
 
"The blacksmith and a few farm labourers," Mr. Basset answered; "I believe they meet together here every evening to discuss the war."
 
There was silence after that until the cab turned into the Glen grounds. Under the porch of the house Miss Basset stood waiting in company with May and Donald, a flush on her pretty old face, a tender light shining in her soft brown eyes. She ran forward as her nephew was assisted from the cab, and clasped her arms around him.
 
"Oh, my poor boy!" was all she could say.
 
"Dear Aunt Ann, I'm all right!" Captain Basset replied, kissing her.
 
"Oh, Paul, you can say that?" she whispered brokenly, the ever-ready tears filling her eyes.
 
"Yes, and feel it, too," he answered her, "so there's no need to cry. I thought you'd be so happy to-night."
 
"So I am, so I am! You mustn't mind my crying—I can't help it!"
 
With an effort the old lady overcame her emotion, and released her nephew from her embrace. Then May and Donald shook hands with him; after which Warner came forward, and respectfully but firmly said his master must go straight to his own room and rest after his journey.
 
"Yes, yes!" Mr. Basset agreed; "we must not forget he is still an invalid."
 
But that Captain Basset stoutly declared he was not, at the same time admitting he was very tired.
 
"I've given you your own old room, Paul," Miss Basset told him, "and the little room next to it has been turned into a sitting-room for you. We want to make you so comfortable here that you will never want to leave us any more!"
 
After that Warner led his master upstairs. Captain Basset did not appear downstairs again that night, but later he sent for Josephine to come to him. He had had his supper, and was resting in a comfortable easy chair by the open window of his sitting-room when his little daughter joined him. She took a chair at his feet, and leaned her head against his knees, whilst they talked in low, confidential tones, first of matters affecting themselves alone, then of the various members of the household and the kindness and consideration they had showed to Josephine during the time she had been at the Glen.
 
"Surely I smell roses," Captain Basset remarked by and by; "there must be some in the room, I am sure, or is the scent coming in the window?"
 
"There are roses on the table and on the mantelpiece," Josephine answered, "and there's a 'Celine Forrester' in bloom against the wall under the window. Uncle John says there is going to be a wonderful crop of autumn roses this year."
 
"How I shall enjoy them! I shall be able to smell them, and picture them. Ah, Josephine, I have so much to be thankful for! So many have been injured far worse than I have and yet live! Several poor fellows I know have lost their memories, but mine has been spared. I can picture your dear mother as well as though I had seen her yesterday, and Aunt Ann, and Uncle John, and—oh, every one I know! I have many happy memories, thank God, but I think almost the happiest is that of my brave little daughter's face as I last saw it, smiling and—"
 
"Oh, you don't know how my heart was aching!" Josephine broke in. "It was ever so difficult to keep bright and smile! It's just been one long, hard fight to keep brave ever since I've been here. I didn't want to be a coward—as though I didn't put my trust in God."
 
Captain Basset laid his hand tenderly on the dark head resting against his knee, and kept it there. For a few minutes there was silence, then he said—
 
"For a while I shall be rather a useless sort of person, I'm afraid; but by and by I shall grow accustomed to the changed circumstances of my life. Depend upon it all is for the best, little daughter. You and I are trying to fight the good fight; we are soldiers of the King of kings, and soldiers don't ask the why and wherefore, you know—"
 
He paused as a gentle knock sounded on the door, then called out—
 
"Come in!"
 
The door opened, and Miss Basset entered the room. Her glance was very tender as it rested on the father and child.
 
"I am come to advise you not to talk any longer to-night," she said; "Josephine is looking pale and tired—it has been an exciting day for her—and she ought to go to bed. It's past ten o'clock."
 
"So late?" exclaimed Captain Basset. "Then say 'good night,' Josephine, and be off!"
 
Josephine obeyed, whilst Miss Basset rang the bell for Warner.
 
"Are you going to send me to bed, too, Aunt Ann?" her nephew asked, laughing.
 
"Yes, my dear boy," she answered. She bent over him, and kissed him on the forehead.
 
"Oh, Paul," she whispered, "I thank God that your life has been spared!"
 
"So do I," he replied earnestly. "Dear Aunt Ann, you're not crying again?"
 
The old lady had to admit that she was. "But it's only for joy, dear," she assured him, "only for joy! It's such a pleasure to John and me to see you and Josephine together again after all you have both gone through. Josephine is a dear child; she has been very, very brave!"
 
Captain Basset smiled. This praise of his little daughter was sweet hearing. That her faith might not fail had been his constant prayer during the long months of their separation, and that prayer had been answered. In Christ she had found strength, hope, and the power to face trouble bravely. Christ had been with her, as with him, through all.
 
* * * * *
 
"Can you see him, Uncle John?" asked Donald.
 
"Yes, my boy, yes!" Mr. Basset answered.
 
They were standing in the midst of a crowd in the market square at Midbury in the pleasant sunshine of a September afternoon. It was market day, and a meeting to aid recruiting was being held outside the butter market. Up to the present the speakers had not made much impression on their audience; but now, as the chairman announced that Captain Basset would address the meeting, a sudden hush fell on the crowd, and all eyes were fixed on the man who, it was well known, had lost his sight in the service of his country.
 
Captain Basset looked every inch a soldier as, guided by Warner, he mounted the platform which had been erected for the speakers. With head erect he made his appeal. Duty was calling the young men present to come forward and help their fellow-countrymen, who had already responded to their king's and country's call, to fight in the righteous cause for which the great British nation had become a nation in arms; and Duty, he reminded them, was God's voice to which no man, certainly no Christian man, dare turn a deaf ear.
 
"That's right!" Donald overheard an old farmer remark, as Captain Basset ceased speaking; "I've lost one son in Flanders already and another's just gone to the Dardanelles—I'd rather lose him, too, than feel he'd shirked his duty, that I would!"
 
There was a sudden movement in the crowd. Several young men were pushing towards the platform. A way was made for them at once.
 
"Capital!" Donald whispered to Mr. Basset, "four—no, five recruits!"
 
Before the meeting was over a dozen more had volunteered, making the total seventeen.
 
"It was your father who got them," Donald told Josephine in the evening, when he discussed the recruiting meeting with her and his sister in the schoolroom at the Glen; "he spoke so well, and he has such a beautifully clear voice that one could hear every word he said. I heard lots of people say how sorry they were he was blind."
 
"Perhaps they would not have listened to him with so much attention if he had not been blind," remarked May shrewdly; "every one realizes what a terrible affliction blindness is."
 
"But father says he is sure that as time goes on he will feel it less and less," Josephine said quickly, "he finds already that it is not nearly such a block to him in many ways as he thought it would be. He is learning to read very fast, and—oh, do you know who invented Braille?"
 
"No!" May and Donald answered, and the former added: "Whoever it was must have been very clever indeed."
 
"It was a Frenchman called Braille," Josephine informed him, "and he wouldn't have thought of it if he hadn't been blind himself. Father told me all about him yesterday. I remember Mrs. Ford saying that many a cross brings a blessing with it, but I didn't think it possible then that blindness could bring a blessing with it at all. I know it can now."
 
There was a brief silence, during which they all looked very serious and thoughtful. Then Donald said—
 
"I suppose one ought to be content to be just what God wills us to be. Perhaps I shall make a better doctor than soldier after all."
 
Josephine nodded. She and Donald were good friends now. He had much improved in many ways during his last term at school—had become manlier and better tempered, and was more considerate and far kinder to his sister.
 
"Ever since the war began I've thought I should like to be a Red Cross nurse when I grow up," said May gravely, "but I dare say the war will be over before then—I hope so."
 
"I hope so, too!" a voice answered her from the doorway.
 
Captain Basset had found his way to the schoolroom unaided, and now, with his hands cautiously extended, crossed the threshold of the room. Josephine ran to him and guided him to a chair; then seated herself close to him, and slipped her hand in his.
 
"I've brought you a piece of news," he said, "some one in whom you are all interested has won the V.C. for his bravery in exposing himself to shell fire again and again in order to save the lives of wounded comrades. I don't know him myself, but—"
 
"Oh!" interposed Josephine excitedly, "you mean Dick Rumbelow!"
 
Her father assented.
 
"I understand his name is in all the newspapers to-day," he said; "his mother must be proud of him."
 
"Oh, I wonder if she knows!" cried May.
 
"She does by this time if she did not before," Captain Basset answered, "for Aunt Ann has sent her niece Jane to tell her."
 
"Good Aunt Ann!" exclaimed Donald. "Fancy Dick Rumbelow, the scapegrace, winning the V.C.! Well, I'm glad!"
 
"So am I!" Captain Basset replied heartily; "I'm sure he deserves it. He must be a very brave man. As Uncle John says, the war has evidently brought out the best in him."
 
"Ah, it's a fine thing to be a soldier!" sighed Donald.
 
"We are all soldiers," Captain Basset answered, "and life's a stiff battle for us all if we're trying to fight the good fight. To some the battle is short, to others long, but, short or long, we shall win through to Victory if we trust in God. 'There hath not failed one word of all His good promise' and He has promised us peace after battle, perfect peace with Him."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Butler & Tanner Frome and London