er, hurrying by, stopped and came eagerly to speak to her.

"How are you, Mrs. Hunt? And how's the Major?"

"Not very well," said Mrs. Hunt, answering the second part of the
question. "The operation was more successful than any he has had yet,
but there has been a good deal of pain, and he doesn't seem to pick up
strength. The doctors say that his hand now depends a good deal upon
his general health: he ought to live in the country, forget that
there's a war on, and get thoroughly fit." She sighed. "It's so easy
for doctors to prescribe these little things."

"Yes--they all do it," said the other--a captain in Major Hunt's
regiment. "May I go to see him, do you think?"

"Oh, do," Mrs. Hunt answered. "It will cheer him up; and anything
that will do that is good. He's terribly depressed, poor old boy."
She said good-bye, and went on wearily.

It was a warm afternoon for October. Norah Linton and her father had
come up to London by an early train, and, after much shopping, had
lunched at a little French restaurant in Soho, where they ate queer
dishes and talked exceedingly bad French to the pretty waitress. It
was four o'clock when they found themselves at the door of a dingy
building in Bloomsbury.

"Floor 3, the Hunts' flat, Daddy," said Norah, consulting a note-book.
"I suppose there is a lift."

There was a lift, but it was out of order; a grimy card, tucked into
the lattice of the doorway, proclaimed the fact. So they mounted
flight after flight of stairs, and finally halted before a doorway
bearing Major Hunt's card. A slatternly maid answered their ring.

"Mrs. Hunt's out," she said curtly. "Gorn to see the Mijor."

"Oh--will she be long?"

"Don't think so--she's gen'lly home about half-past four. Will yer
wait?"

Norah looked at her father.

"Oh yes, we'll wait," he said. They followed the girl into a narrow
passage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of
warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly,
and a boy's voice was heard, angry and tired.

The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah
stopped her as she was departing.

"Could I see the children?"

The girl hesitated.

"They're a bit untidy," she said sullenly. "I ain't had no time to
clean 'em up. There ain't no one to take them for a walk to-day."

"Oh, never mind how untidy they are," said Norah hastily. "Do send
them in."

"Oh, all right," said the