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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, it's quite all right," said Major Hunt, looking rather amazed.

"Only she doesn't generally take them all out. But of course it doesn't matter."

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

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

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

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

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

He racked his brains anxiously for a moment, and then plunged into a story of Australia--a story in which bushrangers, blacks and bushfires mingled so amazingly that it was impossible not to listen to it.

Having once secured his hapless guest's attention, he managed to leave the agony of invention and to slide gracefully to cattle-mustering, about which it was not necessary to invent anything. Major Hunt became interested, and asked a few questions; and they were deep in a comparison of the ways of handling cattle on an Australian run and a Texan ranch, when the car suddenly turned in at a pair of big iron gates and whirled up a drive fringed with trees. Major Hunt broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"Hallo! Where are we going?"

"I have to stop at a house here for an instant," said Mr. Linton.

"Just a moment; I won't keep you."

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

"I should really be very grateful if----"

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

"Daddy! Oh, Daddy!"

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

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

"Come on," said Geoffrey breathlessly, tugging at the door. "Come on!

they're all here."

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

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

How are you, Miss Linton?"

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

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

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

"She means an attic," said Geoffrey scornfully. "Come on, Daddy.

We've got such heaps to show you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tea's is lovely here," confided Alison to him. "They's cweam--an'

cakes, _evewy_ day. An' the tsickens make weal eggs, in nesses!"

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

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

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

"'Ope I see yer well, sir. And _ain't_ this a nice s'prise!"

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

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

"Ow--Ow--_Ow_, it's a lovely War!"

"I didn't know her for a moment," Major Hunt said, laughing. "You see, she never had less than six s.m.u.ts on her face in Bloomsbury.

She's transformed, like all of you in this wonderful dream."

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

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