The children frequently had letters from their father, for whom they longed with an eagerness that grew keener as the months went by and still the cruel warfare continued, and always the date of his return was put back from time to time. Oh, why did he not come, they cried. They had so much to tell, so many things to show—lots of precious trifles given and gathered since he went away.
Slowly the winter seemed to pass, day by day, week after week, month in month out. Then spring came shyly creeping over the land, with snowdrops nestling in her breast, primroses and violets budding in the grassy banks beneath her feet. Later on pink and white blossoms crowned the orchard trees, balmy breezes gently stirred the opening leaves, azure skies stretched high overhead, daisies carpeted the ground under foot. At length it was actually summer—summer in the first flush of her fresh, untarnished loveliness. And as the children looked out of the nursery window one bright May morning, they remembered with a sudden thrill of joy that at last daddy was coming home. Any day he might be with them—any hour, in fact; for even at that moment the ship might be lying snug and safe at anchor in Southampton Water!
That very evening he arrived—not Captain, but Major Dene, for he had been promoted while he was away. Joan flung herself wildly upon her father, hugging and kissing him with all her might for a minute or two; then she turned her attentions and her fingers towards his pockets, in search of whatever spoil she could find. Darby stood silent and shy, gazing with wide, troubled eyes upon the tall, gaunt man who carried such a cruel scar across the hollow of his bronzed cheek. Then with a low, sobbing cry of "Father! father!" the little lad clasped his arms about his father's neck, and on his father's breast wept out some of the ache, the loneliness, the longing which for many lagging months had lain in such a heavy weight upon his tender, faithful, loving heart.
"Why mayn't we go up to see Bambo this morning, Aunt Catharine?" asked Darby next day, as soon as he and Joan had eaten their breakfast. "We didn't see him at all yesterday, and I have so much to tell him about father and the Boers and Africa and—and—everything."
"And I wants to take him some marigolds," said Joan, holding up a huge bunch nearly as big as her own head.
Aunt Catharine was silent, and Darby almost dropped the rod he was trimming into a stick for baby and looked up into his aunt's face. It was pale and sad, and there were tears in her eyes. "What is it, Aunt Catharine?" inquired the boy. "Has anything vexed you, or are you angry with us?" he added timidly; while Joan rubbed her rosy face up and down against her aunt's hand, for all the world like a confident kitten.
"No, dears, I'm not angry with either of you; why should I?" answered Aunt Catharine quickly. "But I have something to say that will make you both sad, and I don't like doing so."
"It is about Bambo, I am certain," said Darby slowly, throwing down the rod he was whittling, shutting up his precious knife and putting it into his pocket, while a shadow fell upon his face, and clouded the gladness in his eyes. "He's not up yet, and when we were going to his room after we were dressed, nurse dragged us downstairs again; and she looked so funny, as if something had frightened her."
"Please let me go to my dear dwarf, Aunt Catharine," coaxed Joan. "One of Topsy's legs is comin' off, and nobody knows how to mend it 'cept Bambo."