She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. The long hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneath the white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivy leaves. Miss Willmot, in the course of two years’ service in the canteen of a base camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier’s heart Her inscription was calculated to make an immediate appeal. “A Merry Christmas,” it ran, “And the Next in Blighty.” The walls of the hut were hung round with festoons of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, and green stretched across the room from wall to wall under the low ceiling. Chinese lanterns, swinging on wires, threatened the head of anyone more than sixmore than six feet in height. Sergeant O’Rorke, an Irish Guardsman until a wound lamed him, now a member of the camp police force, had to dodge the Chinese lanterns when he walked about. Jam-pots and cigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held bunches of holly and sprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the window sills. But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle of it stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags. Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Huge dishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole length of the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to the height of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of cigarettes. “Sure, it’s grand,” said Sergeant O’Rorke; “and there isn’t one only yourself, miss, who’d do all you be doing for the men.” Miss Willmot’s eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her as a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom tried to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a thousand pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of bygone Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She was thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in the canteen--eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how well they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so much, borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot thanked God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men. “Tea! tea! tea! Tea’s ready. Come along, Miss Willmot.” The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a tall, fair girl in a long blue overall. “I’ve made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby’s waiting.” “Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you,” said Bates. “If there’s a happy Christmas going these times at all,” said Sergeant O’Rorke, “it’s yourself deserves it.” “Thank you, thank you both,” said Miss Willmot “If it hadn’t been for your help I’d never have got the decorations done at all.”