A girl, somewhat older than Valentine, though very like him in face, laid down her needlework, saying, with a quiet smile,—
"All's fair in love and war, isn't it, Barbara?"
"Yes, of course it is," answered her sister.
"It's not—is it, aunt?" retorted the boy.
The lady rose from her chair, and, with a merry twinkle in her eye, came over to the table.
"Well, we'll hope not," she said. "Why, Val, I should have thought you were too old to play with tin soldiers; you were fourteen last birthday."
"I don't think I shall ever be tired of playing with them—that is," he added, "until I'm with real ones."
"Queen Mab," as the children sometimes called her, was below the medium height, and as she stood by her nephew's side his head reached above the level of her shoulder. She glanced over the mimic battlefield, and then down at the bright, healthy-looking young face at her side, with its honest grey eyes and resolute little mouth and chin. The old words, "food for powder," came into her mind, and she laid her hand lightly on his rumpled hair.
"So you still mean to be a soldier?"
"Yes, rather; and father says I may."