"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.