"Tell us some more tales about the war," begged Marjorie. "I might have been killed one evening," said Leonard, "if it hadn't been for a friend. We were carrying dispatches, and fell into an ambush. I owe it to Winkles that I'm here to-day. He fought like a demon. I never saw such a fellow!" "Who's Winkles?" "Oh, an awfully good chap, and so humorous! I've never once seen him down. I've got his photo somewhere, I believe. I took a snapshot of him once." "Oh, do show it to us!" Leonard searched through his pockets, and after turning out an assortment of letters and papers produced a small photograph for inspection. The girls bumped their heads together in their eagerness to look at it. It had been taken in camp, and represented the young soldier in the act of raising a can of coffee to his lips. There was a pleased smile on the whimsical face, and a twinkle in the dark eyes. Marjorie caught her breath. "Why, why!" she gasped. "It's surely Private Preston!" "That's his name right enough. We call him Winkles, though. He's a lieutenant now, by the way--got his commission just lately." "But--I thought he was killed?" "Not a bit of it! I heard from him yesterday." "He was in the Roll of Honour," urged Marjorie, still unable to believe. "No, he wasn't. That was his brother Henry, who was in the same regiment--a nice chap, though nothing to Winkles." Marjorie sat in a state of almost dazed incomprehension. A black cloud seemed suddenly to have rolled away from her, and she had not yet had time to readjust herself. As in a dream she listened to Dona's explanation. "He was in the Red Cross Hospital here, and we saw him when Elaine took us to the Christmas tree." "Was it Whitecliffe? I knew he'd been in a Red Cross Hospital, but never heard which one," commented Leonard. "He was going on to a convalescent home," continued Dona. "He came back to the front before he was really fit," said Leonard. "The poor chap had had influenza, but he was so afraid of being thought a shirker that he made a push to go. He was laid up with a touch of pneumonia, I remember, a week after he rejoined." "Will he get leave again?" faltered Marjorie. "Yes, next month, he hopes. They don't live such a very long way from Silverwood, and he said he'd try to go over and see the Mater. She'd give him a welcome, I know." "Rather!" agreed the girls. "We shall be at home in August," added Dona. Marjorie, however, said nothing. There are some joys that it is quite impossible to express to outsiders. "I'm glad they've made him a lieutenant," she said to herself. CHAPTER XXIV The Royal George