He was really concerned about Ger, but mingled with his concern was the feeling that the little boy had taken something of a liberty in developing that particular form of eye trouble. It seemed an unfilial reflection upon himself. Moreover, there was something in the General's letter plainly stating the bare facts that he did not exactly like. It was, he considered, "rather brusque." He started for the South, of France four days earlier than he had originally intended.

Ger was taken to the great oculist in London, who confirmed the "Myjor's" diagnosis of his case, and he was forthwith put into large round spectacles. When he got them, his appearance brought the tears to his grandmother's eyes--tears she rigidly repressed, for Ger was so enormously proud of them. The first afternoon he wore them he went with his grandfather to see Grantly playing in a football match at the Shop, and among those watching on the field he espied his friend "the Ram-Corps Angel." Ger knew him at once, although he wore no white garment, not even khaki, just a plain tweed suit like his grandfather's.

While the General was deep in conversation with the "Commy," Ger slipped away and sought his friend.

"Hullo," said the 'Myjor,' "so you've got 'em on."

"Yes, sir," said Ger, saluting solemnly, "and I'm very much obliged.

It's lovely to see things so nice and clear. Please may I ask you something?"

The Major stepped back out of the crowd and Ger slipped a small hand confidingly into his. Ger had not been to school yet, so there were excuses for him.

"Do you think," he asked earnestly, "that if I'm very industr'us and don't turn out quite so stupid as they expected, that by-and-by I might get into the Ram Corps?"

Major Murray looked down very kindly at the anxious upturned face with the large round spectacles.

"But I thought the Shop was the goal of your ambition?"

"So it was, sir, at first. Then I gave it up because it seemed so difficult, and I talked it over with Willets, and he said _he'd_ never had a great deal of book-learnin'--though he writes a beautiful hand, far better than father--and then I thought I'd be a gamekeeper."

"And what did Willets think?"

"Well, he didn't seem to be very sure--and now I come to think of it, I'm not very fond of killing things . . . so if there was just a chance . . ."

"I'd go into the Ram Corps if I were you," said Major Murray; "by the time you're ready, gamekeepers--if there are any--will have to pa.s.s exams, like all the other poor beggars. You bet your boots on that.

Some Board of Forestry or other will start 'em, you see if they don't."

"Oh, well, if there's to be exams, that settles it. I certainly shan't be one," Ger said decidedly; "I've been thinking it over a lot----"

"Oh, you have, have you?"

"An' it seems to me . . ."

"Yes, it seems to you?"

"That pr'aps you get to know people better if you mend all their accidents and things. I'm awfully fond of people, they're so intrusting, I'd rather know about them than anything."

"What sort of people?"

"The men you know, and their wives and children; they're awfully nice, the ones I know--and if you see after them when they're ill and that, they're bound to be a bit fond of you, aren't they?"

Major Murray gave the cold little hand in his a squeeze. "It seems to me," he said, "that you're just the sort of chap we want. You stick to it."

"Is it _very_ hard to get in?"

"Well, it isn't exactly easy, but it's dogged as does it, and if you start now--why, you've plenty of time."

"That's settled then," said Ger, "and when you're Medical Inspector-General or some big bra.s.s hat like the fat old gentleman who came to see Ganpy yesterday--you'll say a good word for me, won't you?"

"I will," Major Murray promised, "I most certainly will."

"You see," Ger continued, beaming through his spectacles, "if there's war I should be bound to go, they can't get on without the Ram Corps then, and I'd be doing things for people all day long. Oh, it would be grand."

"It strikes me," said Major Murray, more to himself than to Ger, "that you stand a fair chance of getting your heart's desire--more than most people."

"I'm very partikler about my nails now," said Ger. "I saw you scrubbing yours that day at the Cadet Hospital."

When he got home Mrs Ffolliot retired to her room and cried long and heartily, but Ger never knew it. His spectacles to him were a joy and a glory, and he confided to the Kitten that _his_ guardian angel, Sergeant-Major Spinks, did sentry beside them every night so that they shouldn't get lost or broken.

"My angel's in prizzen," the Kitten announced dramatically.

"In prison!" exclaimed Ger, "whatever for?"

"For shooting turkeys," the Kitten replied, "an' he's all over chicken-spots."

"Why did he shoot turkeys for?"

"'Cause he wanted more feathers for his wings."

"But that wouldn't give him chicken-spots."

"No, _that_ didn't--he got them at a pahty, like you did last Christmas."

"Poor chap," said Ger, "but I can't see why he stays in prison when he could fly away."

"They clipped his wings," the Kitten said importantly, "an' I'm glad; he can't come and bother me no more now."

"I hope Spinks won't go shooting fowls and things in his off-time," Ger said anxiously. "I must warn him."

"Pheasants wouldn't matter so much," the Kitten said leniently, "I asked Willets; but turkeys is orful."

"Not at all sporting to shoot turkeys," Ger agreed, "though they are so cross and gobbly."

In the middle of February Mrs Ffolliot fell a victim to influenza, and she was really very ill.

At first she would not allow anyone to tell her husband about it, but when she became too weak to write herself, Mary took it upon her to inform her father of her mother's state. The doctor insisted on sending a nurse, as three of the servants had also collapsed, and Mrs Grantly came down from Woolwich to see to things generally; though when she came, she acknowledged that Mary had done everything that could be done.

Mr Ffolliot curtailed his holiday by a week, and returned at the end of February, to find his wife convalescent, but thin and pale and weak as he had never before seen her during their married life.

He decided that he would take her for a fortnight to Bournemouth.

But Mrs Grantly had other views.

She, Mary, and Mr Ffolliot were sitting at breakfast the day after his return, when he suggested the Bournemouth plan with what Willets would have called his most "Emp'rish air."

Mrs Grantly looked across at Mary and the light of battle burned in her bright brown eyes.

"I don't think Bournemouth would be one bit of good for Margie," she said briskly, "you can't be sure of sunshine--it may be mild, but it's morally certain to rain half the time, and Margie needs cheerful surroundings--sunshine--and the doctor says . . . a complete change of scene and people."