He had, indeed, that very morning entered on his duties as postman for the first time, though he had served his country in another way before. For Postman Chris Ryves had been Trooper Chris Ryves in a previous state of existence. He had had his fill of warfare in South Africa, and had indeed been wounded at Graspan; the left breast of his brand-new blue uniform was decorated with a medal and quite a row of clasps. Though Postman Chris walked at ease he held himself with the erectness due to military training, and his straw hat was perched at the rakish angle which in earlier days, when he had paraded at Knightsbridge Barracks, had caused the heart of more than one artless city maiden to flutter in her bosom. But for all these past glories of his, Postman Chris was an eminently pleasant and affable person; at any chance salutation of a passer-by the white teeth would flash out in that brown, brown face of his with the most good-humoured of smiles; he delivered up his letters with an urbanity of demeanour that was only surpassed by his soldierly promptitude, and he was willing to exchange the news of the day with any pedestrian who cared to march a short distance in his company. The bag which he carried was not unduly heavy, nor his way fatiguingly long; it was a six-mile round in fact--starting from Chudbury-Marshall, proceeding through Riverton and Little Branston to the market town of Branston and so back again. It chanced that as Chris approached Little Branston Schoolhouse on this particular day, his attention was attracted by a hubbub of voices and laughter proceeding from the adjoining field. Pausing a moment in his rapid progress he looked through a gap in the hedge. A feast was evidently in progress; some of the children still sat in rows on the grass, armed with great cups of sickly-looking tea and munching vigorously, buns or hunches of bread-and-jam; others, having finished their meal, were already at play. Here “Blind-man’s-buff” was going on, there “Drop Handkerchief”. In the corner of the field directly under the postman’s observation a game of Forfeits was proceeding. The schoolmistress, who sat facing him, was holding up one object after the other over the blindfolded head of a pupil-teacher, a bright little girl who had left school recently enough to enter still with almost childish zest into such amusements. “Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what is the owner of this Fine Thing to do?” cried the schoolmistress. She had a pleasant, clear voice, and though she sat back upon her heels like many of her pupils, there was something particularly graceful about figure and attitude. “That’s a shapely maid,” remarked Postman Chris to himself; “yes, and a vitty one too.” It will be seen that Chris Ryves was a Dorset man, as indeed his name betokened; he came in fact from the other side of the county. The face which he looked on was as pretty as the figure, its fresh bloom enhanced by the darkness of eyes and hair.