“I see it all now,” continued the girl. “Their Aunt Charlotte was devoted to them. She always had the fear that some day you would return and claim them, and to prevent that she invented the story of their death.” “Charlotte is the most truthful woman that ever breathed,” said the distressed Mr. Barrett. Miss Lindsay shook her head. “You are like all other honourable, truthful people,” she said, looking at him gravely. “You can’t imagine anybody else telling a falsehood. I don’t believe you could tell one if you tried.” Mr. Barrett gazed about him with the despairing look of a drowning mariner. “I’m certain I’m right,” continued the girl. “I can see Charlotte exulting in her wickedness. Why!” “What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Barrett, greatly worried. “I’ve just thought of it,” said Miss Lindsay. “She’s told you that your children are drowned, and she has probably told them you are dead. A woman like that would stick at nothing to gain her ends.” “You don’t know Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett, feebly. “I think I do,” was the reply. “However, we’ll make sure. I suppose you’ve got friends in Melbourne?” “A few,” said Mr. Barrett, guardedly. “Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them.” Mr. Barrett hesitated. “I’ll write,” he said, slowly. “It’s an awkward thing to cable; and there’s no hurry. I’ll write to Jack Adams, I think.” “It’s no good writing,” said Miss Lindsay, firmly. “You ought to know that.” “Why not?” demanded the other. “Because, you foolish man,” said the girl, calmly, “before your letter got there, there would be one from Melbourne saying that he had been choked by a fish-bone, or died of measles, or something of that sort.” Mr. Barrett, hardly able to believe his ears, stopped short and looked at her. The girl’s eyes were moist with mirth and her lips trembling. He put out his hand and took her wrist in a strong grip. “That’s all right,” he said, with a great gasp of relief. “Phew! At one time I thought I had lost you.” “By heart-disease, or drowning?” inquired Miss Lindsay, softly. THE WINTER OFFENSIVE N.B.—Having regard to the eccentricities of the Law of Libel it must be distinctly understood that the following does not refer to the distinguished officer, Lieut. Troup Horne, of the Inns of Court. Anybody trying to cause mischief between a civilian of eight stone and a soldier of seventeen by a statement to the contrary will hear from my solicitors. Aug. 29, 1916.—We returned from the sea to find our house still our own, and the military still in undisputed possession of the remains of the grass in the fields of Berkhamsted Place. As in previous years, it was impossible to go in search of wild-flowers without stumbling over sleeping members of the Inns of Court; but war is war, and we grumble as little as possible.