ed him. He glanced at her face.

"Oh, it's you!" he cried.

It was the little V. A. D.

"Don't rise," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, and pointing
to his father. "Drink this first." She handed him an eggnog. "Now
take your tea." There was a quiet authority about her that compelled
obedience. He ate in silence while she stood beside him. He was too
weary and too sick at heart to talk, but he gradually became aware that
the overpowering sense of loneliness that had been with him all day was
gone.

When he had finished his slight meal, he whispered to her:

"I wish I could thank you, but I can't. I did need it. You have helped
me greatly."

"You are better now," she said softly. "It's very, very hard for you, so
far from home, and from all your friends."

"There is no one else," said Barry simply. "We have no one but just
ourselves."

At this point his father opened his eyes bright and very wide-awake.

The V. A. D. began to gather up the tea things. Barry put out his hand
and touched her arm.

"Dad, this is your night nurse. She was very kind to me last night, and
again to-night. This is Miss Vincent."

The brightness of the V. A. D.'s smile outshone his own.

"I'm not a real nurse," she said. "I'm only a V. A. D., you know. They
use me to wash the floors and dishes, and for all sorts of odd jobs.
To-night they are shorthanded, and have put me on this duty."

While she was speaking, she continued to smile, a smile of radiant cheer
and courage.

The wounded man listened gravely to her, his eyes searching her face,
her eyes, her very soul, it seemed to her. In spite of her experience
and her self-control, she felt her face flushing under his searching
gaze.

"My dear," he said at length, "I am glad to meet you. You are a good and
brave girl, I know." His eyes fell upon the black band upon her arm. "I
see you are wearing the badge of heroism. My dear, pardon me, you
have the same look--Barry, she has your dear mother's look, not so
beautiful--you will forgive me, my dear--but the same look. She thinks
of others and she has courage to suffer. My dear, I cannot take your
hands in mine,"--he glanced with a pathetic smile at his bandaged arms,
but with a swift movement of indescribable grace the girl stooped and
kissed him on the forehead.

"Barry," he said, turning to his son, "that was a fine courtesy. I count
it an honour to have known you, Miss Vincent."

He paused a moment or two, his sear