d
first by the house mistresses, and delivered immediately after breakfast
to the girls, who generally flew out into the quadrangle or the grounds
to devour them. Mrs. Anderson made it a rule to write to Marjorie and
Dona alternately, and they would hand over their news to each other. On
Tuesday morning Marjorie received the usual letter in her mother's
handwriting, but to her surprise noticed that the postmark was "London"
instead of "Silverwood". With a sudden misgiving she tore it open. It
contained bad tidings. Larry, who had lately been sent to the front, had
been wounded in action, and was in a military hospital in London. His
mother had hurried up to town to see him, and had found him very ill. He
was to undergo an operation on the following day.

"I shall remain here till the operation is over," wrote Mrs. Anderson.
"I feel I must be near him while he is in such a dangerous condition. I
will send you another bulletin to-morrow."

Marjorie went to find Dona, and in defiance of school etiquette walked
boldly into Ethelberta's. She knew that on such an occasion she would
not be reprimanded. Miss Jones, who happened to come into the room,
comforted the two girls as best she could.

"While there is life there is hope," she said. "Many of our soldiers go
through the most terrible operations and make wonderful recoveries.
Surgeons nowadays are marvellously clever. My own brother was
dangerously wounded last autumn, and is back in the trenches now."

"I shall think of Larry all day," sobbed Dona.

"Are they ever out of our thoughts?" said Miss Jones. "I believe we all
do the whole of our work with the trenches always in the background of
our minds. Most of us at Brackenfield simply live for news from the
front."

There was great feeling for Marjorie in Dormitory No. 9. Betty had had a
brother wounded earlier in the war, and Sylvia had lost a cousin, so
they could understand her anxiety. Chrissie also offered sympathy.

"I know how wretched you must be," she said.

"Thanks," answered Marjorie. "It certainly makes one jumpy to have one's
relations in the army."

"Isn't your brother fighting, Chrissie?" asked Betty.

"No," replied Chrissie briefly.

"But he must surely be of military age?"

"He's not very well at present."

Betty and Sylvia looked at each other. There was something mysterious
about Chrissie's brother. She seldom alluded to him, and she had lately
removed his photograph from her dressing-tab