on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to
the height of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of
cigarettes.

"Sure, it's grand," said Sergeant O'Rorke; "and there isn't one only
yourself, miss, who'd do all you be doing for the men."

Miss Willmot's eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given
to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her
as a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom
tried to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a
thousand pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of
bygone Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She
was thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in
the canteen--eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how
well they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so
much, borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot
thanked God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men.

"Tea! tea! tea! Tea's ready. Come along, Miss Willmot."

The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a
tall, fair girl in a long blue overall.

"I've made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby's waiting."

"Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you," said Bates.

"If there's a happy Christmas going these times at all," said Sergeant
O'Rorke, "it's yourself deserves it."

"Thank you, thank you both," said Miss Willmot "If it hadn't been for
your help I'd never have got the decorations done at all."

The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them.
The canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas
afternoon.

She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her
overall, stained and creased after a long day's work, then she went into
the kitchen.

Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the
middle of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading
a cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform,
wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was
Mr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga's, the
most fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would
have treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates.

Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping
behind the kitc