Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good. “Dear old boy,” he said. He was watching her with a little smile. “I’m glad he’s got some luck at last.”!

The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round, staring eyes and an open mouth. Another fortnight passed before they heard from Arthur, and then he wrote them both from Hull. He would be somewhere in the North Sea, mine sweeping, when they read his letters. He had hoped to get a day or two to run across and say good-bye; but the need for men was pressing and he had not liked to plead excuses. The boat by which he had managed to leave Bergen had gone down. He and a few others had been picked up, but the sights that he had seen were haunting him. He felt sure his uncle would agree that he ought to be helping, and this was work for England he could do with all his heart. He hoped he was not leaving his uncle in the lurch; but he did not think the war would last long, and he would soon be back.

“No, it wasn’t,” answered the child. “Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama,” she added in a lower tone. “So long as I live,” he answered. Joan flushed. What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way? She was not at all used to impertinence from the opposite sex.