t older than Valentine, though very like him in face,
laid down her needlework, saying, with a quiet smile,--

"All's fair in love and war, isn't it, Barbara?"

"Yes, of course it is," answered her sister.

"It's not--is it, aunt?" retorted the boy.

The lady rose from her chair, and, with a merry twinkle in her eye,
came over to the table.

"Well, we'll hope not," she said. "Why, Val, I should have thought you
were too old to play with tin soldiers; you were fourteen last
birthday."

"I don't think I shall ever be tired of playing with them--that is," he
added, "until I'm with real ones."

"Queen Mab," as the children sometimes called her, was below the medium
height, and as she stood by her nephew's side his head reached above
the level of her shoulder. She glanced over the mimic battlefield, and
then down at the bright, healthy-looking young face at her side, with
its honest grey eyes and resolute little mouth and chin. The old
words, "food for powder," came into her mind, and she laid her hand
lightly on his rumpled hair.

"So you still mean to be a soldier?"

"Yes, rather; and father says I may."

Miss Fenleigh was silent for a moment. "Ah, well," she said at length,
"a happy time will come some day when there will be no more war; and I
think it's about time this one ceased, for Jane will be here in a
minute to clear the table for tea."

If Valentine or either of his sisters had been asked to describe their
Aunt Mabel, they would probably have done so by saying she was the best
and dearest person in the world; and accepting this assertion as
correct, it would be difficult to say more. Her house also was one of
the most delightful places which could well be imagined; and there,
since their mother's death, the children spent each year the greater
part of their summer holidays.

It was a dear, easy-going old house, with stairs a little out of the
straight, and great beams appearing in unexpected places in the bedroom
ceilings. There were brass locks with funny little handles to the
doors, and queer alcoves and cupboards let into the walls. There was
no fusty drawing-room, with blinds always drawn down, and covers to the
chairs, but two cosy parlours meant for everyday use, the larger of
which was panelled with dark wood which reflected the lamp and
firelight, and somehow seemed to be ready to whisper to one stories of
the days when wood was used for wall-paper, and when houses were built
with sl