"Yes, my daughter?"
"Think, daddy, think!"
"My dear, I will—if you'll tell me what."
"Tomorrow is Christmas—the first peace Christmas."
"I know."
"And daddy!"
"Well?"
"In the spring I shall be eighteen."
I looked at a tall girl, her cheeks aglow with the frosty crimson which only English winter days can bring. In her hand was a riding crop, and her riding habit sat trim upon her. But it was her grey eyes sparkling fun, and a certain trick of her smile that struck me most. Eyes and smile alike had come straight to her from her mother. "Eighteen," I thought to myself—"her mother's age when I first met her. Was she then a laughing child—a baby like this?"
"Come sit by your daddy tonight, Helen," I said. She flung herself impulsively on a cushion at my feet, her head against my knee.
"Make me comfy."
I drew her closer to me.
"I had the most glorious ride, today, dad. All through the bridle paths past Aldenham and back by King's Langley."
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