"oh, how lovely the roses are!" exclaimed josephine softly. "and, oh, how i wish father was here to see them!"
"i expect there are roses where he is," answered may, "for i saw a picture in a newspaper yesterday showing part of a ruined village—it had been shelled —and there were roses climbing over a cottage wall i noticed."
it was a beautiful evening in june, and the two little girls, having learnt their lessons for the next day, had come into the garden for a short while before supper and seated themselves on a seat within call of the house.
everywhere were roses in full bloom—standard and half standards and bush roses in the garden beds, ramblers twining over arches and stretching out trailing branches covered with clusters of flowers, whilst the porch of the house was decked with a magnificent "cloth of gold" which mr. basset declared to be the finest in the county.
josephine had been enjoying the peace and beauty of the garden; but at may's mention of the ruined village a shadow fell on her face, and a wistful expression crept into her dark eyes.
"i hope i shall hear from father soon," she said, "i have not heard from him now for ten days, and i can't help feeling very, very anxious—knowing his regiment has been in action. i notice that uncle john is anxious too; he is always on the look out for the post."
"there may be a letter from captain basset in the post now," said may hopefully; "you know once before two letters from him, written at different dates, arrived at the same time."
"so they did!" josephine replied, her face brightening; "i am glad you have reminded me of that!"
"i heard from donald this afternoon," may remarked, drawing a letter from her pocket and opening it; "i want to read you the part where he speaks of mrs. ford, shall i?"
"oh, yes, do, please!" josephine answered eagerly. so may read aloud—
"you might tell josephine that i went to tea again on saturday with her friend, mrs. ford. she is a real, good sort, and i like her. she has promised to come and watch a cricket match we are going to have with some wounded soldiers—of course they are nearly well now or they wouldn't be able to play. she says she thinks i walk better than i did at the beginning of the term, and i hope she's right. but i don't mind so much about my lame knee as i did. i am thinking now of being a doctor, then, if there's a war, i shall be able to go to the front and attend to the wounded. mrs. ford says the doctors have often to do their work under fire, and they are quite as brave as the soldiers. i like talking to mrs. ford."
"oh, i knew he would!" josephine said, looking pleased, "every one does! she's such good company—so bright and always seems to know what it interests one to talk about. should you like donald to be a doctor?"
"yes," may assented, "i should like him to be one like dr. farrant who is, oh, ever so good and kind. why, there he is! dr. farrant, i mean! how strange that he should appear just as i was speaking of him! i wonder what he has come for? it's rather late to pay a call, isn't it? but perhaps he happened to be motoring past here and thought he'd stop and come in. let us go and speak to him."
"no," josephine replied quickly, observing that the doctor had caught sight of them but had turned his face sharply away and was making straight for the front door; "i don't think he wants to talk to us now—he seems in a hurry."
"he certainly does," agreed may; "he wants to see uncle john about something, i expect."
this proved to be the case, for when they entered the house a few minutes later they heard the doctor's voice in the study. he remained nearly half an hour with mr. basset, leaving shortly before supper-time.
"what did dr. farrant want?" miss basset asked her brother during supper. "you found you couldn't persuade him to stay to supper, i suppose?"
"no," mr. basset said, answering the latter question and ignoring the first.
"uncle john, did you tell him i'd heard from donald to-day?" inquired may.
mr. basset shook his head. "donald was not mentioned, my dear," he replied.
it was evident to every one that he was in a very pre-occupied mood. his sister remarked that he ate very little; but when she asked him if he did not feel well he assured her that he had never been better in his life, only he had no appetite.
"neither has josephine," sighed miss basset; "i know why it is—because she's not heard from her father. oh, i do hope we shall hear from him to-morrow! anxiety and suspense are so wearing! dear me, oh, dear me!"
josephine went to bed that night very heavyhearted. she lay awake some time thinking of her father and praying for him. he had not told her, but she knew from what she had read in the newspapers, that he had had a great many hardships and much sorrow to endure of late, for his regiment had suffered badly. very earnestly, with all the fervour of her anxious heart, she prayed—
jesus saviour, let thy presence
be his light and guide:
keep, oh keep him, in his weakness
at thy side.
when in sorrow, when in danger,
when in loneliness,
in thy love look down and comfort
his distress.
may the joy of thy salvation
be his strength and stay;
may he love and may he praise thee.
day by day.
every morning, on rising, she was in the habit of reading a few verses from the bible, and one of the verses she had read to-day had been: "we know that all things work together for good to them that love god." she remembered it now, and was comforted.
though she did not sleep till late, josephine was downstairs before may the following morning, and waiting in the garden when the postman arrived. her face was alight with expectancy as she ran to meet the man; but it was grave and troubled when she returned to the house, for neither of the two envelopes the postman had given her bore her father's handwriting.
"another disappointment, uncle john," she said, with a little choke in her voice, as she met mr. basset in the hall, "there's nothing from father. here are two letters, both addressed to you. one, i think, is only a circular."
"yes, only a circular," mr. basset said, taking the letters from her and glancing at them hurriedly, "and the other is of no importance."
he turned sharply away from her and went into the breakfast-room as he spoke. it struck josephine that his manner was strange, and one thing was quite evident—he did not wish to talk to her. she felt hurt, for hitherto he had always been most sympathetic concerning her father.
in the middle of the morning, whilst the little girls were at lessons with their governess, dr. farrant arrived at the glen again. this time he saw miss basset as well as her brother, and by and by josephine was sent for to come to the study. she guessed at once that news had been received of her father, and flew downstairs with white cheeks and a wildly beating heart.
in the doorway of the study she paused. miss basset was seated in an easy chair, her handkerchief held to her eyes, and dr. farrant and mr. basset were standing by the writing-table, the latter with a telegram in his hand.
it was dr. farrant who stepped quickly to josephine's side, and drew her into the room.
"my dear," he said, "your uncle wishes me to tell you that there is news of your father—"
"is he dead?" josephine interrupted, her voice betraying the agony of her mind. "that's what i want to know! is he dead?"
"no, no!" dr. farrant assured her. then, as she drew a long, gasping breath of relief, he continued: "but he has been wounded and sent back to boulogne."
he placed her in a chair as he spoke. had he not done so she would have fallen, for she had turned dizzy and faint. in a few minutes she felt better, and looked up appealingly into the kind eyes which were watching her so earnestly and sympathetically.
"ah!" dr. farrant said, "you are a true soldier's daughter, i see; you are going to show yourself a brave girl!"
"will father die?" josephine questioned; "oh, do you think he will die?"
"oh, my dear, don't suggest it!" sobbed miss basset; "oh, no, no, no!"
josephine paid no heed to her aunt. all her attention was given to dr. farrant.
"i will tell you all we know," he said; "do not fear that i will keep anything back. it was reported in an evening paper yesterday that your father was wounded, and mr. basset asked me to ascertain for him if the report was correct. as we were not sure we thought it better not to mention it to you last night. first thing this morning i telegraphed to the war office, and have heard in reply that captain basset has been wounded by shrapnel in the face and head—"
"seriously?" broke in josephine. then, as dr. farrant gravely assented, she uttered a faint moaning cry and covered her face with her hands.
"remember seriously wounded may not mean mortally wounded," dr. farrant hastened to remind her; "do not make up your mind that your father will not be restored to you."
"no, i will not!" the poor child uncovered her face. "oh, i hope—i pray that he is not suffering much! my dear, dear father! oh, i wish i could go to him! but of course i can't!"
"comfort yourself with the thought that he is being skilfully tended at boulogne. you may be sure of that."
all this time mr. basset had not uttered a word, but had remained standing by the writing-table, his eyes fixed on the telegram in his hand. now he turned to his sister and said: "do try to compose yourself, ann; this is no time for giving way to grief. there's much to be thought of—and done."
"i can't help crying," answered miss basset, "you know i was never very brave. and i'm so sorry for josephine!"
josephine rose, and, crossing the room, kissed her aunt tenderly.
"dear aunt ann!" she whispered, then her eyes filled with tears, choking sobs rose in her throat, and the next minute, clasped in aunt ann's loving arms, she was weeping in such an abandonment of grief that the old lady was startled and frightened.
"let her cry," dr. farrant said, as miss basset gave him a glance of alarm, "it will do her a world of good."
by the time josephine's tears were exhausted the doctor had gone, and mr. basset, who had seen him off at the front door, was examining a railway time-table at his writing-table. as josephine lifted her tear-stained face from miss basset's shoulder, her uncle remarked—
"i want you to come and pack my portmanteau for me, ann; i'm going a journey."
"a journey?" echoed miss basset in amazement, for her brother had not been a night away from home for years. "a journey?" she repeated. "why, where are you going?"
"to boulogne," he answered briefly.
"to boulogne? why, you'll have to cross the channel! have you forgotten the mines? and you don't talk french! oh, john, you can't go! you'll have to get a passport, too, and—"
"my dear ann," interposed mr. basset, "will you please come and pack my portmanteau? i am not accustomed to travelling, i admit; nevertheless, god willing, i'm going to boulogne."
