ully!"

"Don't mench! I'll try to beg some more. They've always heaps of papers
and magazines at home, and Mother looks through them to find my
pictures. No, you're not taking the 'heroes' away from me. I like them,
but I don't want to collect them. My cube won't hold everything."

Marjorie sat down on her bed and turned over the new additions to her
gallery. Three of them were the usual rather blurred newspaper prints,
but, as Irene had said, two were on superior paper and very clear. One
of these represented an officer with a moustache, the other was a
private and clean shaven. Marjorie looked at them at first rather
casually, then examined the latter with interest. She had seen that face
before--the shape of the forehead, the twinkling dark eyes, and the
humorous smile all seemed familiar. Instantly there rose to her memory a
vision of the crowded railway carriage from Silverwood, of the run along
the platform at Rosebury, and of the search for a taxi at Euston.

"I verily believe it's that nice Tommy who helped us!" she gasped to
herself.

She looked at the inscription underneath, which set forth that Private
H. T. Preston, West Yorks Regiment, had been awarded the V.C. for pluck
in removing a "fired" Stokes shell.

"Why, that's the same regiment that Leonard is in! How frightfully
interesting!" she thought. "So his name is Preston. I wonder what H. T.
stands for--Harry, or Herbert, or Hugh, or Horace? He was most
unmistakably a gentleman. He's going to have the best place among my
heroes. If the picture were only smaller, I'd wear it in a locket. I
wonder whether I could get it reduced if I joined the Photographic
Society? I believe I'll give in my name on the chance. I must show it to
Dona. She'll be thrilled."

The portrait of Private H. T. Preston was accordingly placed in a bijou
frame, and hung up on the wall by the side of Marjorie's bed, in select
company with Kitchener, Sir Douglas Haig, the Prince of Wales, and His
Majesty the King. She looked at it every morning when she woke up. The
whimsical brown eyes had quite a friendly expression.

"Where is he fighting now--and shall I ever meet him again?" she
wondered. "I'm glad, at least, that I have his picture."

Marjorie lived for news of the war. She devoured the sheets of
closely-written foreign paper sent home by Father, Bevis, and Leonard.
She followed all the experiences they described, and tried to imagine
them in their dug-outs, on the march,