On the quarter-deck, facing aft, the ship’s company were mustered: seamen, stokers, artisans, cooks, and police, one after another, as their names were called by the A.P., stepped briskly up to the pay table, where the Captain and the Commander stood, scooped their wages into their caps and hurried away. The Marines followed, receiving their pay in their hands, with a click of the heels and a swinging salute. At the break of the forecastle an Ordinary Seaman stood regarding a few silver coins in his grimy palm. Having broken his leave during the month and been awarded cells in consequence, he had received considerably less pay than usual—a penalty he had not foreseen and did not understand. "Bloomin’ tizzy-snatcher," he muttered, slipping the coins into his trousers-pocket. He referred to the A.P. *XIV.* *"C/O G.P.O."* The bell above the door of the village post-office tinkled and the Postmistress looked up over her spectacles. "Is it yourself, Biddy?" A barefooted country girl with a shawl over her head entered and shyly tendered an envelope across the counter. "Can you tell me how much it will be, Mrs Malone?" she queried. There was anxiety in the dark-blue eyes. The Postmistress glanced at the address. "Sure, it’ll go for a penny," she said reassuringly. "That’s a terrible long way for a penny," said the girl. "Sure, it’s a terrible long way." From under her shawl she produced a coin and stamped the envelope. It took some time to do this, because a good deal depended on the exact angle at which the stamp was affixed. In itself it carried a message to the recipient. "It’s grand writin’ ye’ve got," said the Postmistress, her Celtic sympathy aroused. "An’ himself will be houldin’ it in his hands a month from now." The girl blushed. "Father Denis is after learnin’ me; an’ please for a bit o’ stamp-paper, Mrs Malone," she pleaded softly, "the way no one will be after opening it an’ readin’ it in them outlandish parts." It was the seal of the poor, a small square of stamp-paper gummed over the flap of the envelope. As she was concluding this final rite the bell tinkled again. A fair-haired girl in tweeds, carrying a walking-stick, entered with a spaniel at her heels. She smiled a greeting to both women. "A penny stamp, please, Mrs Malone." She stamped a letter she carried in her hand, and turned the face of the envelope towards the Postmistress. "How long is this going to take getting to its destination?" The Postmistress beamed. "Sure, himself—" she began, and recollected herself. "A month, me lady—no more." Outside, the girl with the shawl over her head was standing before the slit of the post-box; the other girl came out the next moment, and the two letters started on their long journey side by side. As the two women turned to go, their eyes met for an instant: the country girl blushed. They went their way, each with a little smile on her lips.