_Christmas Eve, 1918_
"Daddy?"
"Yes, my daughter?"
"Think, daddy, think!"
"My dear, I will--if you'll tell me what."
"Tomorrow is Christmas--the first peace Christmas."
"I know."
"And daddy!"
"Well?"
"In the spring I shall be eighteen."
I looked at a tall girl, her cheeks aglow with the frosty crimson which
only English winter days can bring. In her hand was a riding crop, and
her riding habit sat trim upon her. But it was her grey eyes sparkling
fun, and a certain trick of her smile that struck me most. Eyes and
smile alike had come straight to her from her mother. "Eighteen," I
thought to myself--"her mother's age when I first met her. Was she then
a laughing child--a baby like this?"
"Come sit by your daddy tonight, Helen," I said. She flung herself
impulsively on a cushion at my feet, her head against my knee.
"Make me comfy."