It was not yet dawn when David Linton, fully dressed, came into the cottage garden. The door stood open, and he kicked off his shoes and crept into the house.

Eva sat on the floor of the passage with her head in her hands. She looked up with a start as the big man came in, and scrambled to her feet; a queer dishevelled figure with her tousled head and crumpled cap and apron. A wave of dismay swept over Mr. Linton.

"Is he——?" he whispered, and stopped.

The girl beckoned him into the sitting-room.

"'E's never stirred all night," she whispered. "I dunno if 'e isn't dead; I never see any one lie so still. The nurse wouldn't sit there like a wooden image if 'e was dead, would she, sir?"

"Surely not," said David Linton. "Where is Miss Norah?"

"Kneelin' alongside of 'im, same like she was when you was here. She ain't never stirred, neither. An' I'll bet a dollar she must be stiff!"

"And Mrs. Hunt?"

"She's in there, wiv 'em. She 'ad a little sleep; not much. No one's said one word in this 'ouse all night."

"Why didn't you go to bed?" David Linton said, looking down at the pinched old face and the stooping shoulders. He had never noticed Eva very much; now he felt a sudden wave of pity for the little London servant. She loved Geoffrey too in her queer way.

"Not me!" said Eva defiantly. "And 'im very near dyin'. I been boilin' the kettle every hour or so, but none of 'em came out for tea. Will you 'ave a cup, sir?"

A refusal was on his lips, but he changed his mind.

"Thank you," he said gently. "And have one yourself, Eva."

"My word, I'll be glad of it," she said. "It's bitter cold, sittin' out there." She tip-toed off to the kitchen. Mr. Linton stood, hesitating, for a moment, and then went along the passage. A screen blocked Geoffrey's doorway, and he peeped over it.

As he did so, Mrs. Hunt moved to the end of the bed. Geoffrey lay exactly as he had been on the night before; so utterly still that it was impossible to say whether he were alive or dead. Norah crouched beside him, her hand still against his face.

Then, very slowly, Geoffrey turned, and opened his eyes.

"Mother!" he said. "Mother, I'm so thirsty!"

Mrs. Hunt was beside him as his eyelids had lifted. The nurse, moving swiftly, handed her a little cup.

"Drink this, sweetheart." The mother raised his head, and Geoffrey drank eagerly.

"That's awful nice," he said. "May I have some more?"

They gave him more, and put him back on the pillow. He looked at
Norah, who knelt by him silently.

"Wake up, old Norah—it's Reveille!" he said.

She smiled at him, and put her face on his, but she did not stir.
Suddenly the nurse saw Mr. Linton, and beckoned to him.

"Carry her—she can't move."

Norah felt her father's arm about her.

"Hold round my neck, dear," he said.

The nurse was at her other side. They raised her slowly, while she clenched her teeth to keep back any sound that should tell of the agony of moving—still smiling with her eyes on Geoffrey's sleepy face. Then, suddenly, she grew limp in her father's arm.

"Fainted," murmured the nurse. "And a very good thing." She put her arm round her, and they carried her out between them, and put her on a sofa.

"I must go back to Geoffrey," the nurse said. "Rub her—rub her knees hard, before she comes to. It's going to hurt her, poor child!" She hurried away.

Geoffrey was lying quietly, his mother's head close to him. The nurse put her hand on his brow.

"Nice and cool," she said. "You're a very good boy, Geoff; we'll think about some breakfast for you presently." Mrs. Hunt raised her white face, and the nurse's professional calmness wavered a little. She patted her shoulder.

"There—there, my dear!" she said. "He's going to do very well. Don't you worry. He'll be teaching me to ride that pony before we know where we are." She busied herself about the boy with deft touches. "Now just keep very quiet—put Mother to sleep, if you like, for she's a tired old mother." She hastened back to Norah.

"Is she all right?" David Linton's voice was sharp with anxiety. "She has never moved."

"The best thing for her," said the nurse, putting him aside and beginning to massage this new patient. "If I can rub some of the stiffness away before she becomes conscious it will save her a lot. Run away, there's a dear man, and tell that poor soul in the kitchen that the child is all right."

"He will live?"

"Rather! That sleep has taken every trace of the fever away. He's weak, of course, but we can deal with that when there's no temperature. Tell Eva to make tea—lots of it. We all want it."

"Thus it was that presently might have been seen the astounding spectacle of a grizzled Australian squatter and a little Cockney serving-maid holding each other's hands in a back kitchen.

"I knew it was orright when I 'eard you comin' down the 'all," said Eva tearfully. "No one's 'ad that sort of a step in this 'ouse since Master Geoff went sick. The dear lamb! Won't it be 'evinly to see 'is muddy boot-marks on me clean floor agin! An' him comin' to me kitching window an' askin' me for grub! I'll 'ave tea in a jiffy, sir. An' please 'scuse me for ketchin' old of you like that, but I'd 'ave bust if I 'adn't 'eld on to somefink!"

Geoffrey dropped off to sleep again, presently, and Mrs. Hunt came to Norah, who was conscious, and extremely stiff, but otherwise too happy to care for aches and pains. They did not speak at first, those two had gone down to the borderland of Death to bring back little, wandering feet; only they looked at each other, and clung together, still trembling, though only the shadow of fear remained.

After that Geoffrey mended rapidly, and, having been saintlike when very ill, became just an ordinary little sinner in his convalescence, and taxed every one's patience to keep him amused. Alison and Michael, who were anxiously watched for developing symptoms, refused to develop anything at all, remaining in the rudest health; so that they were presently given the run of all Homewood, and assisted greatly in preventing any of the Tired People from feeling dull.

Norah remained at the cottage, which was placed strictly in quarantine, and played with Geoffrey through the slow days of weakness that the little fellow found so hard to understand. Aids to convalescence came from every quarter. Major Hunt, unable to leave France, sent parcels of such toys and books as could still be bought in half-ruined towns. Wally, who had been given four days' leave in Paris—which bored him to death—sent truly amazing packages, and the Tired People vied with David Linton in ransacking London for gifts for the sick-room. Geoffrey thought them all very kind, and would have given everything for one hour on Brecon beside Mr. Linton.

"You'll be able to ride soon, old chap," Norah said, on his first afternoon out of bed.

"Will I?" The boy looked scornfully at his thin legs. "Look at them—they're like silly sticks!"

"Yes, but Brecon won't mind that. And they'll get quite fat again. Well, not fat—" as Geoffrey showed symptoms of horror—"but hard and fit, like they were before. Quite useful."

"I do hope so," Geoffrey said. "I want them to be all right before
Father comes—and Wally. Will Wally come soon, do you think?"

"I'm afraid not: you see, he has been to Paris. There's hardly any leave to England now."

"'Praps leave will be open by Christmas," Geoffrey suggested hopefully. "Wouldn't it be a lovely Christmas if Father and Wally both came?"

"Wouldn't it just?" Norah smiled at him; but the smile faded in a moment, and she walked to the window and stood looking out. Christmas had always been such a perfect time in their lives: she looked back to years when it had always meant a season of welcoming Jim back; when every day for weeks beforehand had been gay with preparations for his return from school. Jim would arrive with his trunks bulging with surprises for Christmas morning; Wally would be with him, both keen and eager for every detail in the life of the homestead, just as ready to work as to play. All Billabong, from the Chinese gardener to Mr. Linton, hummed with the joy of their coming. Now, for the first time, Christmas would bring them nothing of Jim.

She felt suddenly old and tired; and the feeling grew in the weeks that followed, while Geoffrey gradually came back to strength and merriment, and the cottage, after a strenuous period of disinfecting, emerged from the ban of quarantine. Alison and Michael had a rapturous reunion with their mother and Geoffrey, and Homewood grew strangely quiet without the patter of their feet. Norah returned to her post as housekeeper, to find little to do; the house seemed to run on oiled wheels, and Miss de Lisle and the servants united in trying to save her trouble.

"I dunno is it the fever she have on her," said Katty in the kitchen one evening. "She's that quiet and pale-looking you wouldn't know her for the same gerrl."

"Oh, there's no fear of fever now," said Miss de Lisle.

"Well, she is not right. Is it fretting she is, after Masther Jim? She was that brave at first, you'd not have said there was any one dead at all."

"I think she's tired out," said Miss de Lisle. "She has been under great strain ever since the news of Mr. Jim came. And she is only a child. She can't go through all that and finish up by nursing a fever patient—and then avoid paying for it."

"She cannot, indeed," said Katty. "Why wouldn't the Masther take her away for a change? Indeed, it's himself looks bad enough these times, as well. We'll have the two of them ill on us if they don't take care."

"They might go," said Miss de Lisle thoughtfully. "I'll suggest it to
Mr. Linton."

David Linton, indeed, would have done anything to bring back the colour to Norah's cheeks and the light into her eyes. But when he suggested going away she shrank from it pitifully.

"Ah, no, Daddy. I'm quite well, truly."

"Indeed you're not," he said. "Look at the way you never eat anything!"

"Oh, I'll eat ever so much," said Norah eagerly. "Only don't go away: we have work here, and we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves anywhere else. Perhaps some time, when Wally comes home, if he cares to go we might think about it. But not now, Daddy." She hesitated. "Unless, of course, you want to very much."

"Not unless you do," he said. "Only get well, my girl."

"I'm quite all right," protested Norah. "It was only Geoff's illness that made me a bit slack. And we've had a busy summer, haven't we? I think our little war-job hasn't turned out too badly, Dad."

"Not too badly at all—if it hasn't been too much for my housekeeper," he said, looking at her keenly. "Remember, I won't have her knocked up."

"I won't be, Daddy dear—I promise," Norah said.

She made a brave effort to keep his mind at ease as the days went on; riding and walking with him, forcing herself to sing as she went about the house—she had her reward in the look in the silent man's eyes when he first heard a song on her lips—and entering with a good imitation of her old energy into the plans for the next year on the farm. But it was all imitation, and in his heart David Linton knew it. The old Norah was gone. He could only pity her with all his big heart, and help her in her struggle—knowing well that it was for his sake. In his mind he began to plan their return to Australia, in the hope that Billabong would prove a tonic to her tired mind and body. And yet—how could they face Billabong, without Jim?

He came out on the terrace one evening with a letter in his hand.

"Norah," he said. "I've good news for you—Wally is coming home."

"Is he, Dad? On leave?"

"Well—he has been wounded, but not seriously. They have been nursing him in a hospital at Boulogne and he writes that he is better, but he is to have a fortnight's leave."

"It will be lovely to have him," Norah said. "May I see the letter,
Dad?"

"Of course." He gave it to her. "Poor old Wally! We must give him a good time, Norah."

"It's a pity Harry's leave didn't happen at the same time," said Norah. "However, Phil will be a mate for him; they like each other awfully."

"Yes," agreed her father. "Still, I don't think Wally wants any other mate when you are about."

"They were always astonishingly good in the way they overlooked my bad taste in being a girl!" said Norah, with a laugh. She was running her eye over the letter. "Oh—hit in the shoulder. I do hope it wasn't a very painful wound—poor old boy. I wonder will he be able to ride, Dad?"

"He says he's very well. But then, he would," Mr. Linton said. "Since we first knew him Wally would never admit so much as a finger-ache if he could possibly avoid it. I expect he'll ride if it's humanly possible!"

Allenby came out.

"Hawkins would like to see you, sir."

"Very well," said his master. "By the way, Allenby, Mr. Wally is coming back on leave."

The butler's face brightened.

"Is he indeed, sir! That's good news."

"Yes—he has been wounded, but he's all right."

"Miss de Lisle will certainly invent a new dish in his honour, sir," said Allenby, laughing. "Is he coming soon?"

"This week, he says. Well, I mustn't keep Hawkins waiting." He went into the house, with Allenby at his heels. It was evident that the kitchen would hear the news as quickly as the ex-sergeant could get there.

Norah read the letter over again, slowly, and folded it up. Then she turned from the house, and went slowly across the lawn. At the sweep of the drive there was a path that made a short cut across the park to a stile, and her feet turned into it half-unconsciously.

The dull apathy that had clogged her brain for weeks was suddenly gone. She felt no pleasure in the prospect that would once have been so joyful, of seeing Wally. Instead her whole being was seething with a wild revolt. Wally's coming had always meant Jim. Now he would come alone, and Jim could never come again.

"It isn't fair!" she said to herself, over and over. "It isn't fair!"

She came to the stile, and paused, looking over it into a quiet lane. All her passionate hunger for Jim rose within her, choking her. She had kept him close to her at first; lately he had slipped away so that she had no longer the dear comfort of his unseen presence that had helped her through the summer. And she wanted him—wanted him. Her tired mind and body cried for him; always chum and mate and brother in one. She put her head down on the railing with a dry sob.

A quick step brushed through the crisp leaves carpeting the lane. She looked up. A man in rough clothes was coming towards her.

Norah drew back, wishing she had brought the dogs with her; the place was lonely, and the evening was closing in. She turned to go; and as she did so the man broke into a clear whistle that made her pause, catching her breath. It was the marching tune of Jim's regiment; but beyond the tune itself there was something familiar in the whistle—something that brought her back to the stile, panting, catching at the rail with her hands. Was there any one else in the world with that whistle—with that long, free stride?

He came nearer, and saw her for the first time—a white-faced girl who stood and stared at him with eyes that dared not believe—with lips that tried to speak his name, and could not. It was Jim who sobbed as he spoke.

"Norah! Norah!"

He flung himself over the stile and caught her to him.

"Old mate!" he said. "Dear little old mate!"

They clung together like children. Presently Norah put up her hand, feeling the rough serge of his coat.

"It isn't a dream," she said. "Tell me it isn't, Jimmy-boy. Don't let me wake up."

Jim's laugh was very tender.

"I'm no dream," he said. "All these months have been the dream—and you can wake up now."

She shivered, putting her face against him.

"Oh—it's been so long!"

Then, suddenly, she caught his hand.

"Come!" she said breathlessly. "Come quickly—to Dad!"

They ran across the park, hand in hand. Near the house Jim paused.

"I say, old chap, we can't take him by surprise," he said. "I was going to sneak in by the back door, and get hold of Miss de Lisle and Allenby, to tell you. Hadn't you better go and prepare him a bit?"

"Yes, of course," Norah said. "There's a light in the study: he's always there at this time. Come in and I'll hide you in Allenby's pantry until I ring."

They crept in by a side door, and immediately ran into the butler.

"How are you, Allenby?" Jim inquired pleasantly.

Allenby staggered back.

"It's Mr. Jim!" he gasped, turning white.

"It is," said Jim, laughing. He found the butler's hand, and shook it. Norah left them, and went swiftly to her father's study. She opened the door softly.

David Linton was sitting in a big armchair by the fire, bending forward and looking into the red coals. The light fell on his face, and showed it old and sad with a depth of sadness that even Norah had hardly seen. He raised his head as the door opened.

"Hallo, my girl," he said, forcing a smile. "I was just beginning to wonder where you were."

"I went across the park," Norah said nervously. Something in her voice made her father look sharply at her.

"Is anything the matter, Norah?"

"No," she said quickly. She came close to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You look as if you had seen a ghost," he said. "What is it, Norah?"

"I—I thought I had, too," she stammered. "But it was better than a ghost. Daddy—Daddy!" she broke down, clinging to him, laughing and crying.

"What is it?" cried David Linton. "For God's sake tell me, Norah!"
He sprang to his feet, shaking.

"He's here," she said. "He isn't dead." Suddenly she broke from him and ran to the bell. "Jim," she said; "Jim has come back to us, Daddy."

The door was flung open, and Jim came in, with great strides.

"Dad!"

"My boy!" said his father. They gripped each other's hands; and Norah clung to them both, and sobbed and laughed all at once.

"Let me sit down, children," said David Linton presently; and they saw that he was trembling. "I'm getting an old man, Jim; I didn't know how old I was, until we lost you."

"You couldn't get old if you tried," said Jim proudly. "And you can't lose me either—can he, Norah?" They drew together again; it seemed complete happiness just to touch each other—not to speak; to be together. Afterwards there would be explanations; but they seemed the last thing that mattered now.

They did not hear the hoot of a motor in the drive or a ring at the front door. Allenby answered it, and admitted a tall subaltern.

"Mr. Wally!"

"Evening, Allenby," said Wally. "I believe I'm a bit ahead of time—I didn't expect to get here so soon. Do you think they'll have a corner for me?"

Allenby laughed—a rather quavering laugh.

"I think you'll always find your room ready, sir," he said. "You—I suppose you 'aven't 'eard our good news, sir?"

"I never hear good news," said Wally shortly. "What is it?"

Allenby eyed him doubtfully.

"I don't know as I oughtn't to break it to you a bit, sir," he said. "You can't be over-strong yet, and you wounded, and all; and never 'aving rightly got over losing Mr. Jim, and——"

Wally shuddered.

"For Heaven's sake, man, stop breaking it gently!" he said. "What is it?" In his voice was the crisp tone of the officer; and the ex-sergeant came to attention smartly.

"It's Mr. Jim, sir," he said. "'E's 'ome."

For a long moment Wally stared at him.

"You're not mad, I suppose?" he said slowly. "Or perhaps I am. Do you mean——"

"Them 'Uns couldn't kill him, sir!" Allenby's voice rose on a note of triumph. "Let me take your coat, sir—'e's in the study. And you coming just puts the top on everything, sir!"

He reached up for Wally's coat. But the boy broke from him and ran blindly to the study, bursting in upon the group by the fire. There he stopped dead, and stared at them.

"Old chap!" said Jim. He sprang to him, and flung an arm round his shoulders. Then he gave a great sigh of utter contentment, and echoed Allenby unconsciously.

"Well, if that doesn't make everything just perfect!" he said.