leasure in
introducing Major David Phillips.

The York Hill line bent forward eagerly--an M.C.--a Russian
prisoner--name David--David was a favourite name just then--one of their
own University boys, wounded, tall, thin, dark hair turning grey at the
temples in the most approved fashion! How satisfactorily romantic!

But just how romantic, not one of the forty guessed but Judith. She
alone heard the quick intake of Miss Ashwell's breath, she alone saw the
flood of colour sweep over Miss Ashwell's face, she could almost hear
the thumpings of Miss Ashwell's heart, and Judith guessed at once that
the here who was being enthusiastically applauded was the hero of the
Italian snapshots, and Miss Ashwell's face was sufficient confirmation.
How thrilling, how wonderful! He was home again, Miss Ashwell would be
happy, everybody would be happy! Probably they would be married right
away--she had forgotten the imaginary German bride--and maybe Miss
Ashwell would let her help her in her shopping. She could go down on
Saturday mornings. Aunt Nell knew an awfully good shop for linens, an
Irish shop.

"Say, Judy," whispered Frances, "isn't that your Uncle Tom in the back
row on the platform?"

Yes, it was. Judith blushed with vexation. Why couldn't Uncle Tom be
more careful? His tie had slipped its moorings and was gradually working
its way to the top of his collar. Really, relations ought to be less
conspicuous unless they could be more presentable; she hoped Catherine
wouldn't see him. He did look ridiculous. Whatever had he done to his
hair? It looked as if he had gone to sleep in it, thought Judy
indignantly.

Judith stole another glance at Miss Ashwell; the colour had faded and
her face was white; it looked almost stern. Whatever was the matter? The
lights went off for the lantern slides and Judith, greatly daring,
whispered:

"Isn't that the Major Phillips you used to know, Miss Ashwell? The one
who was with Uncle Brian in Italy?"

"Yes, I used to know him, Judith, a long time ago," in stiff, cold,
dignified tones.

Judith felt dazed for a moment; then a happy inspiration came to her; a
lovers' quarrel--that's what's the matter. Now, if they could just meet
again without either of them having to give in, they would be sure to
make it up.

It was very trying having no one to talk to. She wished fervently that
Nancy or Sally May or Josephine or Joyce or some one other than Frances
were beside her; she must think hard.