captain basset was home on three days' leave only, so he had but one clear day to spend at the glen, the sunday which josephine afterward looked back upon as one of the happiest of her life.
she was not so selfish as to wish to keep her father all to herself. it was sufficient joy for her to be in his presence, to listen to his voice, and to see that, whilst he talked to his aunt and uncle and made friends with may and donald on his first evening at the glen, his eyes constantly turned to her, telling her by their expression that this brief reunion was as great a joy to him as to her.
captain basset was a slight, middle-size man, with a thin bronzed face, dark hair, and eyes very like his little daughter's. his smile, too, was like hers, as was the frank, direct look he always gave every one he was talking to. indeed the resemblance between the two was most strong, and noticeably so when they were together, a fact many remarked as they looked at father and daughter at the little mission church on sunday morning.
oh, how time flew on that memorable sunday! josephine resolutely put away all thought of the parting to come, and enjoyed every minute of her father's society, especially the precious hour she had with him alone in the afternoon when they strolled about the garden in the pleasant spring sunshine.
"and are you happy here?" captain basset questioned by and by.
"as happy as i could be anywhere without you, father," she answered; "i ought to be, for every one is so kind to me! may and i are like sisters, and donald—well, he's very nice sometimes, too."
"only sometimes?"
josephine nodded.
"sometimes no one can please him," she explained gravely; "they say he wasn't like that before his accident—it is his accident that has spoilt his temper aunt ann says. he wanted to be a soldier, you know; but that will be impossible now on account of his lame knee. it will never be quite right the doctors say. father, i do wish you'd talk to him."
"talk to him?" echoed captain basset inquiringly.
"yes. i think he'd listen to you and pay attention to what you say. couldn't you point out to him it's wrong to be cross with everybody because he's disappointed and unhappy himself? i do think it's very unkind of him, father."
"and rather cowardly, too. i don't suppose he's ever looked at it in that light though. poor boy! i feel sorry for him."
"so do i. you know, he's being taught by miss cummings, and he doesn't like that; he gives her a lot of trouble very often. but he's to go back to boarding-school next term, i believe. the doctor says he will be able to do altogether without his crutch by then—he only uses it a little now."
"so i observe. you like your governess, josephine?"
"oh, yes! at first i did not, but now i know her better i do. she lives at midbury with her mother, who is rather a melancholy sort of person. may and i went to tea with them once during the christmas holidays. oh, i did miss you so dreadfully at christmas! but i didn't tell any one that! aunt ann and uncle john invited all the belgians from midbury to a party, and it was good to see how they brightened up and enjoyed it, poor things! may and i helped entertain the children—i liked that. on christmas eve we took presents to the wounded at the hospital, and then we found out that, without saying a word about it at home, uncle john had sent them a gramophone."
"capital! he always was kindness itself, and aunt ann too. but they used to have few interests outside their own household, as well as i remember; now, judging from all i hear, they seem to have a good many."
"it is strange you should have said that, father, for i heard uncle john say something very like it himself the other day. he was talking to aunt ann, and he said, 'the war seems to have taken us out of ourselves, ann.'"
"what answer did aunt ann make?"
"she said, 'there are so many to be cared for and helped, and comforted, and so much work to be done.' she's busy making sand-bags now, you know. oh, father, this cruel, cruel war! oh, i do hope it will not last much longer!"
there was a minute's silence during which captain basset pressed the little hand within his arm closer to his side; then he said quietly: "these are very dark days, but god is always with us. we must 'trust in him at all times.' i read the other day these words: 'if the sun is going down look up to the stars. if the earth is dark keep your eye on heaven.' you will try to do that?"
"i will! i do! that is fighting the good fight, isn't it?"
captain basset assented. before there was time for anything more to be said may appeared at the house door and beckoned them indoors to tea.
mr. basset, with his nephew and the two little girls, went to church in the evening, whilst his sister remained at home with donald. on their return the church-goers found donald in the hall, having evidently grown impatient waiting for them.
"how late you are!" he exclaimed, addressing may, who was looking her brightest; "you cannot have come straight home!"
"we met several people we knew and stopped talking to them," she answered, "that delayed us. i'm afraid you've had a dull evening."
"much you care if i have!" he muttered, adding, "if you hadn't been selfish you'd have offered to stay at home with me!"
the words were intended for may's ears alone, but some one else heard them. as the little girls ran upstairs to take off their hats and jackets and mr. basset turned into the drawing-room, captain basset laid his hand on donald's shoulder, and said very quietly—
"why try to make that little sister of yours unhappy? i saw the brightness fade from her face as you spoke to her. i don't think she deserved to be called selfish."
donald flushed hotly. he admired captain basset as a brave soldier, and would have liked to have had his good opinion. captain basset continued—
"i have heard how lovingly she waited on you during your illness and what a kind little sister she is. never try to wound a tender heart, my boy! it is most cowardly to do that!"
"i suppose you consider me a coward, then?" donald suggested, rather resentfully.
"i expect you are more thoughtless than cowardly. i understand you wanted to be a soldier?"
"yes, but i shall never be one now!" the boy's voice was slightly tremulous. "i couldn't do long marches with my lame leg—and i shall always be lame, you know. oh, it is hard!"
"it is," captain basset agreed, "but if it is god's will—" he paused, for the boy had made an impatient gesture, then, after a brief hesitation, he proceeded— "if it is god's will that you should always be lame, do try to bear your cross bravely like a christian soldier! think of the many men who have come back from france and flanders disabled for life—"
"ah, but they have done some fighting!" donald broke in. "every one knows them for brave men!"
at that moment jane appeared in the hall to sound the supper gong. during supper donald seemed in a rather subdued frame of mind. may watched him anxiously, but he did not show ill-temper to her again that evening. he was really ashamed that captain basset should have overheard his unkind remark to his sister, and ashamed of the remark as well.
it was later than usual when the household at the glen retired to rest that night, for, as miss basset said with a break in her voice, who could tell when they might see dear paul again? in the drawing-room, after prayers, josephine sat on a stool at her father's feet, her head resting against his knees. she was silent now. indeed she feared to speak, for her throat seemed to swell every time she attempted to do so, and she dreaded lest she should burst into tears. surely the clock on the mantelpiece ticked quicker than usual! how fast the precious minutes flew!
by and by, obeying a meaning glance from miss basset, may rose, said "good night," and went off to bed. donald followed her example shortly afterwards; but josephine did not move till her father remarked that if she did not go and get a night's good rest she would be "all mops and brooms" in the morning.
"and i want to take away with me the remembrance of your face at its brightest," he added; whereupon she rose quickly, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then, without one backward glance, left the room.
captain basset had arranged to travel by a train leaving midbury about noon next day, and josephine had heard the order given for barnes to get the pony-carriage in readiness to drive to the railway station at eleven o'clock. she decided before she fell asleep that she would ask permission to drive into midbury with her father and see him off at the railway station herself. so in the morning, whilst the family was at breakfast, she made her request.
"may i see you off, father?" she asked eagerly. "you'd like me to, wouldn't you?"
"oh, my dear, don't you think it would be better if you said good-bye to him here?" suggested miss basset quickly, before her nephew could reply. "your uncle is going to drive him into midbury, and i'm sure it would upset them both very much if you made a scene—i mean if you broke down and cried."
"as if i would!" josephine exclaimed reproachfully, her cheeks flushing.
"well, i know i should," miss basset admitted, shaking her head and sighing. "but what does paul wish himself?" she asked, looking at her nephew.
"i should like josephine to come to the railway station with me," he answered, smiling; "i took it for granted she would."
"may i, uncle john?" josephine asked eagerly, appealing to mr. basset.
"why, of course, my dear, if you wish it," he answered. "eleven o'clock punctually mind!" as though it was likely josephine would forget!
after breakfast may and donald went to the schoolroom as usual to await miss cummings' arrival. the governess had not heard of the visitor at the glen, so great was her surprise when the raes greeted her with the news that captain basset had been there for the week-end and was leaving that morning.
"josephine's to have a half-holiday to go and see him off," may said, "but i suppose we must do lessons as usual. i don't feel very workish to-day though."
for once in a way miss cummings was inclined to be lenient with her pupils. a little before eleven o'clock captain basset came into the schoolroom to say good-bye to may and donald, and miss cummings was introduced to him. then, shortly after he had gone, the wheels of the pony-carriage were heard, and may exclaimed—
"oh, miss cummings, do, do let us go to the window and look out!"
"very well," miss cummings agreed. "and i think we'll stop work for the morning," she added, "things are so unsettling."
she followed her pupils to the window, which they opened. leaning out, they could see the pony-carriage at the front door, with tommy between the shafts, barns standing by.
in a minute mr. basset came out of the house, and, having taken the reins from barnes, settled himself in the driver's seat. he was followed by josephine, and some minutes later by captain basset. the latter looked up to the schoolroom window and saluted, as, having seated himself opposite his little daughter, the carriage moved away.
"i like him!" may exclaimed heartily. "he's so nice and friendly; i do hope he'll soon get leave again. i wonder where aunt ann is—why she didn't go out to see him off?"
"i expect she's crying somewhere," donald answered; "i saw at breakfast that her eyes kept filling with tears."
"let us go and find her and persuade her to come out in the garden with us, shall we?" suggested may.
miss cummings agreed. accordingly governess and pupils went downstairs together, and found miss basset weeping in the dining-room.
may ran to her and kissed her with ready sympathy, whilst the governess explained that lessons had been stopped for the morning, adding that she hoped miss basset did not mind.
"no, no," the old lady answered, wiping her eyes, "i understand. dear me, oh, dear me!"
"it's beautifully sunny out-of-doors," said may; "do come out into the garden with us, aunt ann!"
"very well, dear, i will," miss basset replied, "i'm foolish to cry, i know. oh, i do hope josephine won't break down at the last—when the moment of parting from her father comes at the station, i mean. i am so afraid she will!"
miss basset need not have been afraid. josephine's heart was one big ache when the moment of parting came, but her great unselfish love for her father made her determined not to distress him. she put her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other; then he placed her hand in mr. basset's, and sprang into the train just as it was on the point of starting. his last glimpse of josephine showed her standing looking after the departing train, smiling and waving her kerchief to him. thus in the future he to picture her—the brave little daughter who was dearer to him than all the world.
