ds no soul!"
she said. But no one found any fault, and at the end Colonel Aikman
made a little speech of thanks to their hosts. "We all know they hate
speeches made at them," he finished. "But Homewood is a blessed word
to-day to fighting men."

"And their wives," said Mrs. Aikman.

"Yes--to people who came to it tired beyond expression; and went back
forgetting weariness. In their names--in the names of all of us--we
want to say 'Thank you.'"

David Linton stood up, looking down the long room, and last, at his
son.

"We, who are the most thankful people in the world, I think, to-day,"
he said, "do not feel that you owe us any gratitude. Rather we owe it
to all our Tired People--who helped us through our own share of what
war can mean. And, apart from that, we never feel that the work is
ours. We carry on for the sake of a dead man--a man who loved his
country so keenly that to die for it was his highest happiness. We
are only tools, glad of war-work so easy and pleasant as our guests
make our job. But the work is John O'Neill's. So far as we can, we
mean to make it live to his memory."

He paused. Norah, looking up at him, saw him through misty eyes.

"So--we know you'll think of us kindly after we have gone back to
Australia," the deep voice went on. "There will be a welcome there,
too, for any of you who come to see us. But when you remember
Homewood, please do not think of it as ours. If that brave soul can
look back--as he said he would, and as we are sure he does--then he is
happy over every tired fighter who goes, rested, from his house. His
only grief was that he could not fight himself. But his work in the
war goes on; and as for us, we simply consider ourselves very lucky to
be his instruments."

Again he paused.

"I don't think this is a day for drinking toasts," he said. "When we
have won we can do that--but we have not won yet. But I will ask you
all to drink to a brave man's memory--to John O'Neill."

The short afternoon drew quickly to dusk, and lights flashed out--to
be discreetly veiled, lest wandering German aircraft should wish to
drop bombs as Christmas presents. Norah and the boys had disappeared
mysteriously after dinner, vanishing into the study. Presently
Geoffrey came flying to his mother, with eager eyes.

"Mother! Father Christmas is here!"

"You don't say so!" said Mrs. Hunt, affecting extreme astonishment.
"Where?"

"I saw him run along the hall and go i