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---