“I’ve a-been so taken up with Susan, d’ye see,” said Mrs. Frizzell, with a sudden pang of remorse. She went upstairs for the child, and after he had been duly admired, and the visitor had withdrawn, she still sat looking down at the little placid face. “Poor fellow!” she said to herself. “Poor fellow! Ah! I fancy he’d have been proud if he’d ha’ lived to come back an’ own ye, Baby. Dear, dear! they mid all ha’ been so happy—and all forgive an’ forgot. Ah! he were sorry enough, poor chap, and he did repent—the Lard ’ull ha’ mercy on him for that. . . . ’Ees, I can fancy he’d ha’ been proud if he could ha’ seen ye, Baby; but there, all of en as ’ull ever come back is them few lovin’ words and that dreadful spot o’ blood.” And then Mrs. Frizzell fell to weeping again for pure pity, and kissed the little soft face of the dead soldier’s child and the tiny rings of ruddy gold which no father’s hand would ever stroke. When John came in she conveyed the tidings to him in half-inarticulate shouts, between bursts of sobbing. The big dull man stood gazing at her for a moment in perturbed amazement, and then went, slowly and heavily, upstairs. Susan still lay with her face hidden, and her slight frame heaving with convulsive sobs. Her father paused in the doorway, and then came lumbering forward towards the bed, stooping when he reached it and patting the girl’s shoulder with his great horny, toil-worn hand. “Don’t ’ee take on, Susie, my dear,” he murmured, blubbering too, poor fellow. “There, don’t ’ee cry, Maidie.” “Nay, Father,” moaned Susan, “don’t ’ee call me that—don’t ’ee never call me that no more! I be a widow—I be a real widow now.” “Ah, ’tis true,” murmured poor Frizzell indistinctly. “Ye be a widow, my poor maid—ye be a widow now, sure!” * * * * * But it was not so sure after all. As Mrs. Frizzell sometimes said, the most wonderfullest things did certainly happen in her family. Lo! no sooner was Private Griggs decently, and, as she imagined, finally interred than Gunner Barton took upon himself to return to life; and the complications which ensued were so bewildering that even Mrs. Frizzell was unable to cope with them. For, on the receipt of the letter which announced that Jim, though so seriously injured that he would be more or less of a cripple all his life, was indubitably recovering, and would in fact be shortly shipped home, Susan, hitherto so meek and broken, became utterly unmanageable. She was about to set forth on some household errand when she met the postman, who informed her that he had a letter for her mother from abroad. “Give it to me,” cried Susan quickly. “’Tis for Mrs. Frizzell,” said the rural messenger in surprise; but the girl, with a flaming face, had already torn open the envelope. In another moment she rent the air with strange cries and shrieks of joy.