Now that they were over, the children tried to forget how long and sad and weary the days had been during which the sight of the post-bag, and the morning newspaper, almost took everyone’s breath away, until the columns of "War news" had been hastily scanned before taking letters and papers to Mother’s room. Then came the day when Uncle Howard’s name was amongst the "seriously wounded," and there was a brief account of how he had saved the guns, and then returning into the firing line to pick up a wounded soldier, had himself been dangerously wounded. The children thought of Uncle Howard’s delicate young motherless boy, and sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol." They did not know how to break the news to Mother, because Uncle Howard was her twin brother, and they all knew how dearly she loved him. Unperceived she had entered the room, and had learned the news for herself. The days that followed were darker than before, for it was not known for some weeks if Major Willmar would live or die. Gradually, slightly better news came, and he was pronounced out of danger. Later on it was announced he was ordered home, and Father, Colonel Mandeville, was coming with him. As soon as the vessel left Cape Town the children began their happy, joyous preparations for the welcome home. Then, in the midst of them, when the triumphal arches were erected, awaiting only the final floral decorations, came a telegram from Gibraltar. Major Willmar had suffered a relapse at sea, and the doctors had not been able to save him. His body had been committed to the waves. Again the children sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol." Mother was strangely calm and quiet. "Carol must come to us. We must take the place to him of all he has lost," she said. She wrote to the lady who had charge of him, asking her to take the boy to meet the vessel at Plymouth, in order that Colonel Mandeville might bring Carol home with him. All the children, seven in number, were at the station when the express drew up. Edith and Gwendolin, two tall fair girls of twelve and thirteen years; Percy and Frank, eleven and ten; then three of the dearest little maidens, Sylvia four, Estelle three, and the sweet Rosebud, whom Father had never seen. She had come to cheer Mother’s breaking heart in the dark days of the war, and was now two years old. It was an unusual occurrence for an express train to stop at that quiet country station. The porters were on the alert to drag out the luggage as quickly as possible. A tall bronzed and bearded man sprang out of the train on the instant of stopping, so changed that even the elder children scarcely recognized him. He looked at them with hungry eyes, as if he would take them all in his arms at once, had they been big enough to go round, then seized the smallest of all, the little snow-white maiden. "Iz ’ou Daddy?" she asked.