THE scene at the Floral Hall was worthy of the occasion. All that was best in the public life of Blackhampton and of the county of Middleshire was gathered in force in the ornate building in New Square.

There was more than one reason for the representative character of the audience. In the first place it was felt to be a royal opportunity to exalt the horn of patriotism. This public recognition of the heroic Miss Munt was a compliment paid to the women of Britain, to those many thousands of magnificent women whose deeds had proved them worthy of their brothers, their husbands and their sons. Again, the figure of Sally herself had fired the public imagination. A Joan of Arc profile overlaid by a general air of you-be-damnedness made an ideal picture postcard as her father had already found to his cost. All sorts of people seemed to take a fantastic pleasure in addressing them to Josiah Munt, Esquire, J.P., Strathfieldsaye, The Rise, Blackhampton. “How proud you must be of her,” et cetera. Ad nauseam.

Moreover, this function was intended as a tribute to the Mayor himself. His worth was now recognized by all classes. He was the right man in the right place; his boundless energy and his practical sense were of the utmost value to the community; and the wise men of that thickly populated district seized the chance of paying homage to Josiah and at the same time of exploiting a powerful personality in the interests of the state.

At three o’clock, when the Mayor came on to the platform, the large hall was very full. He was followed by the Duke of Dumbarton, a genial, young-middle-aged nobleman, who was to make the presentation, and by other magnates. Behind the Chairman many notables were seated already; and to lend point to the somewhat intimate nature of the proceedings, which may or may not have been part of the design of these “in the know,” the members of Josiah’s family with the national heroine in their midst had been grouped prominently upon his right hand.

The Town Clerk, a little wickedly perhaps, had intimated beforehand to the Mayor that the proceedings would really be in the nature of “a family party.” At all events, his worship took the hint “of that Aylett” literally. Before sitting down at the table and taking formal charge of the meeting his eyes chanced to light on a group of men in hospital blue for whom places had been reserved in the front row of the balcony. Among these he recognized Corporal Hollis, whose leg as a result of five weeks’ special treatment had improved quite remarkably.

The Mayor went to the end of the platform and called loudly, “Bill, you are wanted down here. Come on to the platform, my boy.”

The Corporal did not covet notoriety, but it would have been as wise to thwart the waters of Niagara as to resist the will of the City’s chief magistrate at a public meeting. Until his instructions had been carried out there was not a chance of a start being made. Reluctantly realizing this the Corporal in the course of three minutes had made his way down from the gallery and on to the platform, a crutch in each hand, where his august father-in-law received him.

“Come on, Bill.” He was shepherded along the front row of chairs as if the presence of three thousand people was a very ordinary matter. “You come and sit with the wife. Colonel Hickman, kindly move up a bit. Thank you. Like a chair for your leg? If you do, I’ll get one.”

The Corporal declined a chair for his leg, just as the meeting incited by certain officious members of the Town Council broke into cheers. Melia and the Corporal, seated side by side, were covered in momentary confusion. Then the chairman took his seat at the table, reduced the meeting to silence by rapping the board sternly with his mallet and stood up again briefly to open the proceedings. These consisted in patriotic speeches from Lieutenant-General Sir William Hardcastle, K.C.B., and the Duke of Dumbarton, and the presentation of an illuminated scroll in a gold casket to Miss Sarah Ann Munt.

First, a speech excellent in its kind, which paid tribute to the deeds of the sons and daughters of the Empire in all parts of the world; also it emphasized the sternness of the hour and the need for “keeping on, keeping on.” Then, amid a flutter of excitement, came the presentation to Miss Munt. It was made by the Duke, a figure deservedly popular all over the district from which, to be sure, he derived immense revenues. A master of courtly phrase and well turned compliment, he gave the heroine of the occasion the full benefit of his powers. And when at last, in the purview of three thousand people, the dauntless Sally came forth to the table to receive the casket and scroll she was a sight to behold.

Rather tall, very slender, brown of cheek and with the eye of a falcon, in her simple, faded, but much beribboned khaki she looked at that moment a child of the gods. At the sight of her a thrill ran through the hall. Cinema, newspaper, picture postcard had led that assembly to set its hopes high, but the reality, in its calm strength, with a faintly ironical smile fusing a noble fixity of purpose, more than fulfilled them. In the youngest daughter of the Mayor of the city was symbolized the glorious spirit of the youth of the Empire.

A hush came over the great audience. The Duke opened the casket and took out the scroll. Everybody seemed fascinated by her, including the members of her own family in a group at the right-hand of the Chair. But there was just one person there who did not seem willing to submit without a struggle to her dynamic influence; and that person was her rather rueful, slightly scandalized male parent.

Even now, in this, of all moments, his worship seemed to detect in that amazing personality the spirit of Damnable Independence. How many times in the past, in the stress of combat, when it had been his will against hers, had he seen that dogged, oh-go-to-the-devil look which would surely have driven him mad had not he been weak enough to admire it secretly. There was no getting topside of a look of that kind. As she stood in the presence of the ducal necktie, with a faint trace of humorous scorn at the corners of her lips, the outraged Chairman suddenly caught and fixed her eye. And as he did so his own eye, as of old, seemed to say to her, “One word from You, our Sally, and I’ll give You such a Lammoxing!”

The casket and scroll were handed to Miss Munt, who acknowledged them with a graceful inclination of an imperial head, and then cheers broke out in a hurricane. In part, no doubt, they were inspired by family associations, for her father had grown vastly popular; but in large measure they were due beyond a doubt to sheer power of personality. The secret force which distinguishes one human being from another, over and beyond their works and their walk in life, belonged to Sally in sovereign degree. Her portraits and her fame had kindled hopes which the dauntless reality had more than fulfilled. In the sight of all she stood a true daughter of her race, foursquare, unconquerable.

At last the cheers subsided and then arose demands for a speech from the Mayor. As the result of assiduous practice in war oratory Josiah had won remarkable success. He did not pretend to polish or to flights of intellect or fancy, but he had a knack of speechmaking that was immensely to the taste of his fellow citizens. In response to the insistent demand of the meeting he rose ponderously.

On the crowded platform, as in the body of the hall itself, was many a shrewd judge of men. The average Briton of all classes has an instinct in such matters that is almost uncanny. He knows a man when he sees one. And when the Mayor stood up to address them, a little yet not too much, embarrassed by the nature of his reception, all present knew that they saw one now. Charmed and delighted by the heroine of the piece, so shrewd a body of persons may also have been rather amazed that she had come to happen. But, somehow, her father seemed to explain her. A rough diamond, no doubt, but at that moment, in his self-possession, in his self-belief, in his titanic grappling power when faced with difficulty, he was an expression of the genius of the race.

All the same it was not easy for the Mayor of Blackhampton to find words at that moment. As a rule, when on his legs he did not suffer a lack of them. He had a natural gift of speech and a faculty of humor which found expression in many a racy idiom. But his powers threatened to desert him now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. There was a pause and then he began again. “Ladies and gentlemen.” There was a second pause while three thousand sympathetic fellow citizens hung upon the phrase. And then at last slowly and grimly the great voice boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, there are those who think they can down the Anglo-Saxon race, but”—slight pause—“they don’t know what they are un-der-ta-kin’——”

There was one pause more. It lasted but an instant for the meeting broke out in a roar. Only too well had the Mayor interpreted the thought that was dominating the minds of his fellow citizens.