Mother put down the key of the hen-house and took up the letters that
lay beside her plate.
"If only Joan would write larger," she sighed, turning over an
envelope across which an ant seemed to have walked and left an inky
trail. "I've mislaid my glass too, and shan't be able to read a word.
Where could I have put the miserable thing?" she asked, peering again
at the ridiculous little script.
Father put down his paper and said these hunts for Aunt Matilda were
getting monotonous. Only yesterday he had rescued her from some dried
bulbs in the greenhouse, and didn't Mother think it time she saw a
good oculist and had proper spectacles, instead of using the old lens
in that carved gold bauble belonging once to his grandmother's aunt.
"Perhaps it's just a bad habit," she answered with a smile, "or my
eyes are getting lazy. But really I can see _so_ well through it, and
if they would print the newspapers better--"
"No one we know in this morning's list," said Father shortly, as he
turned a sheet; "and we should be hearing from those rascals now that
the push is over," he added, glancing at Mother who began to sip her
coffee hurriedly.
"They might even get leave together," ventured Margery. "It's five
months since Dick came home, and as for Christopher--"
"What swank for old Margots, now her hair is up," piped Archie. "Two
brothers from the trenches to--"
"If you'd make a little less noise, my son," said Father in a strange
voice, "I might be able to take in what I'm reading. There's something
here about Christopher."
"What?" cried Mother, springing from her chair.
"Yes, it's Christopher plain enough," he repeated with shining eyes.
"Christopher Charles Bentley, and--God bless my soul!--the boy has
been splendid! It's all down here, and---
"Read, read!" we clamoured, as his voice grew husky and indistinct.
"Read!" again we shouted, as Mother came and took the paper gently
from him.
"When you're all quiet, children," she began, devouring the words
before her.
_Quiet!_ Even the canary held its breath while Mother read that
wonderful paragraph.
It was a long one, and every word of it a tribute to our magnificent
Chris, who had organised a small volunteer party, attacked a strong
point, and captured fifteen of the enemy and a machine-gun, for which
gallant act he had been awarded the M.C.
With lingering pride she went through it a second time, and only then
did we see that she was staring at the paper, proudly and fiercely,
through the handle of the hen-house key!
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First A.B. (indicating old tramp steamer in ballast)_.
"THANK 'EAVENS WE AIN'T GOT PROPELLERS WHAT STICK OUT LIKE THAT ON
THIS 'ERE JUNK, BILL."
_Second A.B._ "WHAT ARE YOU GROUSING ABOUT NOW?"
_First A.B._ "WHY, THE BLOOMIN' FIRST-LOOTENANT WOULD MAKE US POLISH
THE BLINKIN' THING."]
* * * * *