"_Isn't_ a small boy!" protested Michael furiously. "Daddy said I was 'normous."

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

"There!" said Mrs. Hunt, putting Geoffrey's garments into a tub.

"It's just as well to have them washed, but I really don't think there's any need to worry."

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

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

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

"So of course you'll go?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think he isn't well?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He was always the cheerfullest person I ever saw," said Norah. "He just laughed through everything. I remember once when he was bitten by a snake, and it was hours before we could get a doctor. We were nearly mad with anxiety, and he was in horrible pain with the tourniquet, but he joked through it all in the most ridiculous way.

And he was always so eager. It's the last thing you could call him now. All the spring has gone out of him."

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

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

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

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

"I will," said his mother. "Mind you take care of all the family.

You're in charge, you know, Geoff."

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

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

"Don't want to be, if Father comes," said Geoffrey, his eyes dancing.

"You'll tell him, won't you, Mother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They found Eva slightly truculent.

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

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

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

things," she added grudgingly.

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

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

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

They spent a merry afternoon at the river--a little stream which went gurgling over pebbly shallows, widening now and then into a broad pool, or hurrying over miniature rapids where brown trout lurked.