“Very like the poor innocent do take after some o’ Mr. Griggs’ relations,” remarked another woman. “His mother, now—’tis strange how often I’ve a-known the first child be the very image o’ the father’s mother.” Mrs. Frizzell’s hawk eyes immediately fixed themselves upon the mental picture of Private Grigg’s maternal parent, and she presently remarked, in a somewhat muffled tone, that she fancied she had heard summat about old Mrs. Griggs bein’ a red-haired woman. “And that makes another of ’em!” she groaned to herself, “I d’ ’low I’ll soon forget what ’tis to speak the truth.” Returning, after the departure of the visitors, to replace the little flannel-wrapped bundle by its mother’s side, she observed tentatively— “His hair do seem to be red, Susie.” “’Ees,” returned poor Susie faintly, “his hair be red—like Jim’s.” “Ye mid ha’ told me that, I think!” exclaimed Mrs. Frizzell, with irrepressible irritation. “I’ve been a-tellin’ everybody as your husband were a dark-haired man. I had to make out a story now about your mother-in-law having red hair. P’r’aps she has?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. She’s dead long ago, and so is his father. Oh, Mother, how can you make up sich tales?” “Well, I had to say summat when they axed me. If I were to say as I didn’t know, they’d be sure to guess as things wasn’t all right.” “But if—if Jim ever do come back?” faltered the girl. “He’ll not come back—put that out o’ your head,” said Mrs. Frizzell shortly. The tears rolled down Susie’s face, and her eyes followed her mother’s energetic figure as it moved about the room. Once or twice she opened her lips as though to speak, but her courage failed her. Then, suddenly, the words burst from her— “Mother, don’t ’ee pray agen him! I can feel as you’re wishin’ and wantin’ him not to come back. P’r’aps ye be a-prayin’ as—as summat may happen. Oh, don’t, don’t! ’Tis wicked.” Mrs. Frizzell turned quite pale. She came and stood at the foot of Susie’s bed, gazing at her so oddly that the girl, who was by this time shaking with hysterical sobs, became more and more unnerved and frightened. “There, don’t take on so,” said her mother at last, and her voice sounded husky and strange. “I mid be better nor what I am, the Lard knows, though, p’r’aps, it bain’t my own darter’s place to tell I so; but I’ve not gone so far as to pray for evil to fall on anybody, if that be what ye mean. I be a Christian woman, however wicked I mid be.” “But you wish it,” sobbed Susan. “You know you wish it, Mother—you do wish as Jim were dead.” “You lay down,” said Mrs. Frizzell, coming round to the side of the bed, and forcing her patient back upon her pillows. “Lay down, and keep still, and don’t go upsettin’ yourself and this poor innocent child. Leave the Lard to judge of I, as I do leave Him to judge of _he_.” Susan was slowly recovering strength when one day a letter arrived containing news so consoling and yet so tragic that her heart very nearly broke.