"And meanwhile," said Jim, "we'll all go down to Fuller's and have morning tea. One thing, young Norah, you won't find a Fuller's in Cunjee!"

"Why would I be trying?" Norah asked cheerfully. "Sure isn't there Brownie at Billabong?"

"Hear, hear!" agreed Wally. "When I think of Brownie's pikelets----"

"Or Brownie's scones," added Norah. "Or her sponge-cakes."

"Or Brownie's tea-pot, as large and as brown as herself," said Mr.

Linton--"then London is a desert. But we'll make the best of it for the present. Come along to Fuller's."

CHAPTER II

THE HOME FOR TIRED PEOPLE

"To begin with," said Jim--"what's the place like?"

"Eighty acres, with improvements," answered his father. "And three farms--all let."

"Daddy, you're like an auctioneer's advertis.e.m.e.nt," Norah protested.

"Tell us what it is _like_--the house, I mean."

"We'll run down and see it soon," said Mr. Linton. "Meanwhile, the lawyers tell me it's a good house, Queen Anne style----"

"What's that?" queried Jim.

"Oh, gables and things," said Wally airily. "Go on, sir, please."

"Standing in well-timbered park lands," said Mr. Linton, fishing a paper out of his pocket, and reading from it. "Sorry, Norah, but I can't remember all these thrills without the lawyers' letter. Lounge hall, four reception rooms----"

"Who are you going to receive, Nor?"

"Be quiet," said Norah, aiming a cushion at the offender. "Not you, if you're not extra polite!"

"Be quiet, all of you, or I will discontinue this penny reading," said Mr. Linton severely. "Billiard-room, thirteen bedrooms, three baths (h. and c.)----"

"Hydraulic and condensed," murmured Wally. Jim sat upon him with silent firmness, and the reading was unchecked.

"Excellent domestic offices, modern drainage, central heating, electric plant, Company's water----"

"What on earth----?" said Jim.

"I really don't know," said his father. "But I suppose it means you can turn taps without fear of a drought, or they wouldn't put it.

Grounds including shady old-world gardens, walled kitchen garden, stone-flagged terrace, lily pond, excellent pasture. Squash racquet court."

"What's that?" asked Norah.

"You play it with pumpkins," came, m.u.f.fled, from beneath Jim. "Let me up, Jimmy--I'll be good."

"That'll be something unusual," said Jim, rising. "Yes, Dad?"

"Stabling, heated garage, thatched cottage. Fine timber. Two of the farms let on long leases; one lease expires with lease of house. All in excellent order. I think that's about all. So there you are, Norah. And what are you going to do with it?"

It was the next morning, and the treacherous September sunshine had vanished, giving place to a cold, wet drizzle, which blurred the windows of the Lintons' flat in South Kensington. Looking down, nothing was to be seen but a few mackintoshed pedestrians, splashing dismally along the wet, grey street. Across the road the trees in a little, fenced square were already getting shabby, and a few leaves fluttered idly down. The brief, gay English summer had gone; already the grey heralds of the sky sounded the approach of winter, long and cold and gloomy.

"I've been thinking terribly hard," Norah said. "I don't think I ever lay awake so long in my life. But I can't make up my mind. Of course it must be some way of helping the War. But how? We couldn't make it a hospital, could we?"

"I think not," said her father. "The hospital idea occurred to me, but I don't think it would do. You see you'd need nurses and a big staff, and doctors; and already that kind of thing is organized.

People well established might do it, but not lone Australians like you and me, Norah."

"How about a convalescent home?"

"Well, the same thing applies, in a less degree. I believe, too, that they are all under Government supervision, and I must admit I've no hankering after that. We wouldn't be able to call our souls our own; and we'd be perpetually irritated by Government under-strappers, interfering with us and giving orders--no, I don't think we could stand it. You and I have always run our own show, haven't we, Norah--that is, until Jim came back to boss us!" He smiled at his tall son.

There was a pause.

"Well, Dad--you always have ideas," said Norah, in the voice of one who waits patiently.

Mr. Linton hesitated.

"I don't know that I have anything very brilliant now," he said. "But I was thinking--do you remember Garrett, the fellow you boys used to tell us about? who never cared to get leave because he hadn't any home."

"Rather!" said the boys. "Fellow from Jamaica."

"He was an awfully sociable chap," Wally added, "and he didn't like cities. So London bored him stiff when he was alone. He said the trenches were much more homelike."

"Well, there must be plenty of people like that," said Mr. Linton.

"Especially, of course, among the Australians. Fellows to whom leave can't mean what it should, for want of a home: and without any ties it's easy for them to get into all sorts of mischief. And they should get all they can out of leave, for the sake of the War, if for nothing else: they need a thorough mental re-fitting, to go back fresh and keen, so that they can give the very best of themselves when the work begins again."

"So you think of making Sir John's place into a Home for Tired people?" said Norah, excitedly. "Dad, it's a lovely plan!"

"What do you think, Jim?" asked Mr. Linton.

"Yes, I think it's a great idea," Jim said slowly. "Even the little bit of France we had showed us what I told you--that you've got to give your mind a spring-cleaning whenever you can, if you want to keep fit. I suppose if people are a bit older they can stick it better--some of them, at least. But when you're in the line for any time, you sometimes feel you've just _got_ to forget things--smells and pain, and--things you see."

"Well, you'd forget pretty soon at a place like the one you've been reading about," said Wally. "Do you remember, Jim, how old poor old Garrett used to look? He was always cheery and ragging, and all that sort of thing, but often he used to look like his own grandfather, and his eyes gave you the creeps. And he couldn't sleep."

"'M!" said Jim. "I remember. If Garrett's still going, will you have him for your first patient, Nor? What will you call them, by the way--guests? patients? cases?"

"Inmates," grinned Wally.

"Sounds like a lunatic asylum," rejoined Jim. "How about lodgers? Or patrons?"

"They'll be neither, donkey," said Norah pleasantly. "Just Tired People, I think. Oh, Dad, I want to begin!"