A letter had arrived that morning from his elder brother George, who was an officer in a line regiment. It had been written in the trenches before Sebastopol, for these events took place in the mid-Victorian period towards the end of the Crimean War. Or rather the letter had been begun in the trenches and finished in the military hospital, whither George had been conveyed, suffering from “fever and severe chill,” which seemed to be somewhat contradictory terms, though doubtless they were in fact compatible enough. Still he wrote a very interesting letter, which, after the pudding had been consumed to the last spoonful, Anthony read aloud while the girls ate apples and cracked nuts with their teeth. “Dear me! George seems to be very unwell,” said Mrs. Walrond. “Yes,” answered Anthony, “I am afraid he is. One of the medical officers whom my father knows, who is working in that hospital, says they mean to send him home as soon as he can bear the journey, though he doesn’t think it will be just at present.” This sounded depressing, but Mr. Walrond found that it had a bright side. “At any rate, he won’t be shot like so many poor fellows; also he has been in several of the big battles and will be promoted. I look upon him as a made man. He’ll soon shake off his cold in his native air——” “And we shall have a real wounded hero in the village,” said one of the girls. “He isn’t a wounded hero,” answered Janey, “he’s only got a chill.” “Well, that’s as bad as wounded, dear, and I am sure he would have been wounded if he could.” And so on. “When are you going back to Cambridge, Anthony?” asked Mrs. Walrond presently. “To-morrow morning, I am sorry to say,” he answered, and Barbara’s face fell at his words. “You see, I go up for my degree this summer term, and my father is very anxious that I should take high honours in mathematics. He says that it will give me a better standing in the Bar. So I must begin work at once with a tutor before term, for there’s no one near here who can help me.” “No,” said Mr. Walrond. “If it had been classics now, with a little refurbishing perhaps I might. But mathematics are beyond me.” “Barbara should teach him,” suggested one of the little girls slyly. “She’s splendid at Rule of Three.” “Which is more than you are,” said Mrs. Walrond in severe tones, “who always make thirteen out of five and seven. Barbara, love, you are looking very tired. All this noise is too much for you, you must go and lie down at once in your own room. No, not on the sofa, in your own room. Now say good-bye to Anthony and go.”