Way was made at last. The Major seized Digby by the arm. “It’s a damned nuisance,” he said. “I beg pardon, padre, an infernal nuisance. I’ve got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3 Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn’t they keep quiet on Christmas Day? I must go though, and I may be kept. You’ll have to make the speech and thank Miss Willmot.” Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution of cakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching frantically for an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. One was in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was to the men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. But she did not hear a word of it. She was scarcely aware of the men’s cheers, though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chinese lanterns shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had said this to her: “It’s all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know, who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderly sergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man under arrest. They’re sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O’Rorke to bring that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit of cake for him.” It was while the men were cheering the Major’s other speech that Tommy Collins, guided by Sergeant O’Rorke, entered the canteen. Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter to grasp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scattering crackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and high she would in all probability have kissed him. “Oh, Tommy!” she said. “And I’d given up all hope of seeing you. This is just a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?” Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged her as plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of his arrest. “Now you are here,” said Miss Nelly, “you must help us with the carols. The Major’s a perfect darling, but he can’t sing bass for nuts. You’ll do it, won’t you? I’m singing, and so is Miss Willmot.” V ~~ HER RIGHT Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husband respected her intellect. He was, and still is, Professor of Psychology in one of our younger Universities, so he could give an expert’s opinion on any question of mental capacity. Her sons said she was clever. There were two young Jocelyns, Ned, a barrister, and Tom, a junior master in a public school. Ned used to give me his opinion of his mother very often. “The mater is extraordinarily clear-headed,” he would say. “If you want to see your way through a muddle, just you talk it over with her. It’s an awful pity she----” Then Ned would shrug his shoulders. He was a loyal son, and he never said in plain words what the pity was. Tom spoke in the same way.