"donald, you haven't told me yet what you think of josephine. do you like her?"

may was the speaker. it was the afternoon of josephine's first sunday at the glen, a wet afternoon with a chill wind blowing; and the twins, who had the drawing-room to themselves, were seated one on either side of the fire. donald had been reading, but he flung aside his book as his sister spoke, and answered—

"don't know—haven't made up my mind."

"she isn't a bit like what aunt ann and uncle john expected. they both imagined she'd be very sad and unhappy, thinking of her father, you know, and being all amongst strangers; but she isn't, is she? this morning i said to her, i wondered where her father was and what he was doing, and she said, 'yes, i wonder!' but she didn't seem to be troubling about him. and do you know, she told me when we got back from church that she'd had a most enjoyable morning!"

miss basset had driven to church, as she usually did, but may and josephine had walked with mr. basset. donald had not been to church at all since his accident; he might have accompanied miss basset had he cared to do so.

"i don't know, i'm sure, why it should have been so enjoyable," may continued, "for we had a heavy shower on our way to church, and, as you know, the rain came on in torrents on our way home, so that we were simply drenched. by the by, there were a lot of soldiers in church, and we had a sermon all about fighting."

"what about it?" asked donald, with sudden interest. "what was the text?"

"i can't tell you; i didn't listen. you had better ask josephine. she was very attentive; i believe she heard every word."

"where is she now?"

"in her bedroom. i heard voices as i passed the door—hers and jane's. oh, here she is! take this chair by the fire, josephine."

josephine obeyed. there was a faint flush on her pale cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

"i've been talking to jane," she said; "she's been telling me about her aunt who lives in that cottage near the town—"

"what, mrs. rumbelow?" interrupted may. "oh, i didn't know she was jane's aunt! what does jane say about her?"

"she says she suffers badly from rheumatism—that's what makes her so bent. sometimes she can scarcely move for days together, and the pain is dreadful. yet she never complains. i think that's so brave of her, don't you?"

the twins agreed, and josephine continued—

"jane says her aunt has had a lot of trouble in her life. her husband died, after years of sickness during which she had to work hard as a charwoman to support him; and then her son, her only child, turned out badly—she thinks he's in canada now, but she hasn't heard from him for ever so long. oh, isn't it cruel of him not to write to her?"

"perhaps he's dead," suggested donald.

"that's what jane says. his mother doesn't think so, though; she feels sure she'll hear from him some day."

"poor old woman!" may exclaimed, her sympathy aroused. "does jane often go to see her, i wonder?"

"very often," josephine answered. "she called to see her on her way to midbury on friday evening, and told her where she was taking my shawl. mrs. rumbelow asked her lots of questions about the belgians, and said how sorry she felt for them. she was beginning to say she wished it was in her power to help them when she stopped suddenly, and looked so thoughtful that jane wondered what she was thinking about; then she asked jane to wait a bit and went upstairs and brought down a bundle of—guess what!"

the twins shook their heads. josephine continued—

"why, baby clothes! she told jane she had never meant to part with them because they'd been her son's, and every time she looked at them, which was very often, she thought of her son as he'd been when he wore them, a little innocent creature who'd never done anything wrong, and that was how she liked to picture him. 'it makes my heart ache to give them away,' she said, 'but the gift isn't worth much which costs nothing, so take them, my dear.' and jane took them."

"but it didn't cost mrs. rumbelow anything—" donald was beginning when josephine broke in—

"oh, don't you understand? money wouldn't have bought those baby clothes from her, jane says; she valued them so much as that. so it must have cost her something to give them away!"

"yes," agreed may gravely, "of course it did—looking at it like that." she paused momentarily, then added: "doesn't it say somewhere in the bible, 'naked, and ye clothed me'?"

josephine nodded. "those were christ's own words," she said softly. "i thought of them, too, when jane told me what her aunt had done."

"do you remember the text of the sermon this morning?" may inquired. "donald asked me what it was, but i couldn't tell him."

"it was, 'i have fought a good fight,'" josephine answered promptly.

"and the sermon was about fighting?" donald questioned.

josephine assented. "it was about our all being soldiers," she said, "soldiers of the cross. i liked the preacher."

"i don't know his name," may said, "but i heard some one say as we were coming out of church that he's an army chaplain, a friend of the vicar's, who is going to france next week."

"oh, to the front!" josephine exclaimed. she was silent a minute, then continued: "he said that we must try to live so that when god calls us to himself we may each one of us be able to say as paul did, 'i have fought the good fight.' i enjoyed his sermon. and i liked the hymn afterwards, for it's father's favourite. i expect you know it, donald. it begins 'fight the good fight with all thy might.'"

"i don't think i ever heard it," donald replied.

"shall we sing it to him, may?" suggested josephine.

"i don't know the words," may answered. "besides, who's going to play the accompaniment? i can't."

"nor can i," josephine admitted. "but i can sing it without an accompaniment, i think. i'll try."

she rose, and stood with clasped hands, whilst she sung in a voice which, though not powerful, was clear and sweet as a silver bell—

"fight the good fight with all thy might,

christ is thy strength, and christ thy right;

lay hold on life, and it shall be

thy joy and crown eternally."

"run the straight race through god's good grace,

lift up thine eyes, and seek his face;

life with its way before us lies,

christ is the path, and christ the prize."

"cast care aside, lean on thy guide;

his boundless mercy will provide;

lean, and the trusting soul shall prove

christ is its life, and christ its love."

"faint not, nor fear, his arms are near,

he changeth not, and thou art dear;

only believe, and thou shalt see

that christ is all in all to thee."

"thank you, my dear! there's a truly martial ring about that hymn—a call to battle. and the battle-cry is faith."

the speaker was mr. basset, who had entered the room unnoticed by the children. he joined them by the fire, looking with interest at his little niece who had flushed and smiled at his remark.

"i've been telling may and donald that that's father's favourite hymn," she said; "he thinks it's fine, and so do i. oh, uncle john, i do wonder when we shall hear from father! i suppose we might get a letter from him any day—there's no knowing. he said he thought i should have to go to school, but do you know what i should like? why, to do lessons with may and donald—if they would not mind."

"mind!" cried may; "oh, we should be delighted! more the merrier!"

"miss cummings doesn't give us a very merry time," remarked donald dryly.

may laughed.

"she is a very serious sort of person," she explained to josephine, "even out of school hours."

"but she is a most excellent teacher," mr. basset said, "and that is the main thing to be considered. you had a governess in india, had you not, josephine?"

"yes, uncle john," josephine answered, "miss ford. she was a niece of mrs. ford's. last june, though, she was married, and since then i've had a holiday—father thought it would do me no harm. miss ford and i were great friends."

"i don't think i could ever be very friendly with miss cummings," observed may. "those fords must be very nice people," she added.

"they are dears—all of them!" josephine declared. "colonel ford is a splendid soldier; i believe his men would die for him."

"do you mean the indian soldiers?" asked donald.

"yes, of course. father says they love and honour him because he's so just, and at the same time so kind. he's such a popular officer. and his wife—oh, i can't tell you all she's been to me! she was my mother's friend, and i think she has always loved me for my mother's sake."

there was a brief silence, which was broken by may, who told mr. basset about mrs. rumbelow's present to the belgians.

"poor old soul," he said pityingly, after he had listened to her tale; "i remember her son—a ne'er-do-well. i hope i shall not forget to send a hamper of fruit and vegetables to the belgians to-morrow—i meant to do so yesterday, but i forgot."

"shall we remind you, uncle john?" asked josephine eagerly.

"i wish you would, my dear," he replied; "i've a shockingly bad memory. dear me, listen to the wind! it's going to be a wild night!"

"how wretched it will be for our soldiers in the trenches!" exclaimed may. "poor fellows, i do pity them. oh, by the way, donald, i didn't tell you that the recruits are learning trench making on kilber down."

"how do you know?" inquired donald.

"mrs. dicker told me," may replied. "i mean to go and see what they're doing," she continued; "i dare say miss cummings will take josephine and me to kilber down one afternoon. i wish you could come too, donald."

"what's the good of wishing it when you know i can't?" said donald sharply. then, meeting a surprised glance from josephine's eyes, he added: "perhaps i may get aunt ann to drive me there."

"is your knee hurting you to-day, donald?" inquired josephine.

"not at all, thank you," the boy answered. "what made you ask?"

"because of the way you spoke," was the frank response; "i know if some people are in pain they get touchy and cross."

donald grew very red at this remark; but he let it pass, much as he longed to retort. may looked at him anxiously, and was relieved when he did not speak.

the rain was too heavy for any one to think of leaving the house again that day. at tea time mr. basset told his sister of josephine's wish to be taught by miss cummings, and miss basset agreed with him that it would be an excellent plan if it could be arranged. mr. basset then retired to his study, and miss basset and the children spent the evening in the drawing-room. it was a very dull evening; for the old lady fell asleep in her chair by the fire, and the young folks did not like to talk for fear of disturbing her.

no one was sorry when the supper gong sounded. the household at the glen always met for family prayer in the dining-room after supper. mr. basset read the prayers from a well-worn book; but on this sunday night for the first time he added a prayer for "all those who are serving our country on land and sea," concluding with a verse of that beautiful hymn for absent friends—

jesus saviour, let thy presence

be their light and guide.

keep, oh, keep them, in their weakness

at thy side.

josephine had been fighting against depression all the evening, but when she rose from her knees that peace which passes understanding filled her heart. she knew that wherever her beloved father was he was in god's keeping. jesus was at his side.