It is nearly three years since I made the last entry in my 'Hut' diary, from which I have written out this history of 'The House that Grew.' How I came to do so I will explain.
We have been through some very anxious times lately about Rolf. He is a soldier, and very soon after he got his commission his regiment went to India, and he with it. I will not tell the particulars, as he might not like it, but he 'came in' almost at once for some very active service, up in some of those dreadfully out-of-the-way places, where there are so often disturbances with the natives, which in England do not attract much attention, unless you happen to have close personal interest in what is happening, as we had, for Rolf had become almost like another brother to us, spending half his holidays at Eastercove. And Geordie—oh, I forgot to say he did get the scholarship!—and he, by a happy coincidence, had been at school together.
Well—one sad day there came news that Rolf was badly wounded. We have been waiting and waiting—and I think the anxiety 'got on my nerves,' as people say. For one day mamma spoke seriously to me, when she found me sitting idle, just longing for letters.
'Ida, dear,' she said, 'you must get something to do—something extra, I mean, to interest you.'
And after talking a little, the idea of writing out my 'Hut' diary came into my head, and, as you see, I have done it!
And I have been, if I deserved to be so, rewarded for following mamma's advice.