"No one we know in this morning's list," said Father shortly, as he turned a sheet; "and we should be hearing from those rascals now that the push is over," he added, glancing at Mother who began to sip her coffee hurriedly.
"They might even get leave together," ventured Margery. "It's five months since Dick came home, and as for Christopher—"
"What swank for old Margots, now her hair is up," piped Archie. "Two brothers from the trenches to—"
"If you'd make a little less noise, my son," said Father in a strange voice, "I might be able to take in what I'm reading. There's something here about Christopher."
"What?" cried Mother, springing from her chair.
"Yes, it's Christopher plain enough," he repeated with shining eyes. "Christopher Charles Bentley, and—God bless my soul!—the boy has been splendid! It's all down here, and—-
"Read, read!" we clamoured, as his voice grew husky and indistinct.
"Read!" again we shouted, as Mother came and took the paper gently from him.
"When you're all quiet, children," she began, devouring the words before her.