ing an old man; it worries me a good deal to think that Norah has
no woman to mother her. I used to think," he said with a sigh, "that
it was worse for them to lose their own mother when they were wee
things; now, I am not sure that Norah's loss is not just beginning.
It's no small thing for her to have an influence like yours; and Norah
loves you."

Mrs. Hunt flushed.

"Indeed, I love her," she said.

"Then stay and mother her. There are ever so many things you can
teach her that I can't: that Miss de Lisle can't, good soul as she is.
They're not things I can put into words--but you'll understand. I
know she's clean and wholesome right through, but you can help to
mould her for womanhood. Of course, she left school far too early,
but there seemed no help for it. And if--if bad news comes to us from
the Front--for any of us--we can all help each other."

Mrs. Hunt thought deeply.

"If you really think I can be of use I will stay," she said. "I'm not
going to speak of gratitude--I tried to say all that long ago. But
indeed I will do what I can."

"That's all right: I'm very glad," said David Linton.

"And if you really want her taught more," Mrs. Hunt said--"well, I was
a governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She
could come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris.
Her music, too: she really should practise, with her talent."

"I'd like it above all things," exclaimed Mr. Linton. "Norah's
neglected education has been worrying me badly."

"We'll plan it out," Mrs. Hunt said. "Now I feel much happier."

Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay
at the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the
plan--helped by the fact that she was always a little afraid of
failing to come up to Jim's standard. A fear which would considerably
have amazed Jim, had he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit
hours of study into her day. She rose early to practise, before the
Tired People were awake; and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs.
Hunt or chattering French, while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and
the babies slept in their white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr.
Linton's heels, either on Brecon or afoot. The big Australian
squatter and the little English boy had become great friends: there
was something in the tiny lad that recalled the Jim of long ago, with
his well-knit figure and steady eyes.

One man alone, out of all