e at all," Philippa assured him.

"If we are, we'll explain," Helen promised.

"In that case," the intruder begged, "perhaps you will excuse me."

He moved towards the door and softly turned the key, then he drew the
curtains carefully across the French windows. Afterwards he made his way
towards the tea-table. A little throbbing cry had broken from Helen's
lips.

"Philippa," she exclaimed, "it's from Dick! It's Dick's handwriting!"

Philippa's reply was incoherent. She was tearing open her own envelope.
With a well-satisfied smile, the bearer of these communications seized a
sandwich in one hand and poured himself out some tea with the other. He
ate and drank with the restraint of good-breeding, but with a voracity
which gave point to his plea of starvation. A few yards away, the
breathless silence between the two women had given place to an almost
hysterical series of disjointed exclamations.

"It's from Dick!" Helen repeated. "It's his own dear handwriting. How
shaky it is! He's alive and well, Philippa, and he's found a friend."

"I know--I know," Philippa murmured tremulously. "Our parcels have been
discovered, and he got them all at once. Just fancy, Helen, he's really
not so ill, after all!"

They drew a little closer together.

"You read yours out first," Helen proposed, "and then I'll read mine."

Philippa nodded. Her voice here and there was a little uncertain.

MY DEAREST SISTER,

I have heard nothing from you or Helen for so long that I was
really getting desperate. I have had a very rough time here,
but by the grace of Providence I stumbled up against an old
friend the other day, Bertram Maderstrom, whom you must have
heard me speak of in my college days. It isn't too much to say
that he has saved my life. He has unearthed your parcels, found
me decent quarters, and I am getting double rations. He has
promised, too, to get this letter through to you.

You needn't worry about me now, dear. I am feeling twice the
man I was a month ago, and I shall stick it out now quite easily.

Write me as often as ever you can. Your letters and Helen's make
all the difference.

My love to you and to Henry.
Your affectionate brother, RICHARD.

P.S. Is Henry an Admiral yet? I suppose he was in the Jutland
scrap, which they all tell us here was a great German victory. I
hope he came out all right.

Philippa read the postscript with