Mrs. Stuckhey smiled pityingly, and replied in a tone of dignified amusement, “They be useful too, no doubt, in their way; but ye’ll hear different to your notion, Mrs. Woolridge. ‘Soldiers of the Queen,’ you know: they stand high, d’ye see—more partic’lar jest now. ‘Your country’s love to you!’—nobody wouldn’t go for to say that to a postman, would they now? nor yet to a man what was workin’ on the line.” “And that’s true,” agreed Mrs. Blanchard. Mrs. Woolridge tossed her head. “Well, I think there’s a deal too much fuss made about them soldiers,” she said—“not meanin’ your son in partic’lar, Mrs. Stuckhey, but the lot of ’em; and I can’t think as the Lard’s blessin’ can rest on this here war. It d’ stand to reason as it can’t—sendin’ up the price o’ everythin’, and makin’ it so hard for the poor to live. Why, the very price o’ coal be doubled very near. Don’t tell me as the A’mighty can approve o’ that.” A faint colour overspread the sallow cheek of the soldier’s mother, and there is no knowing how severe might have been her retort had not the long-expected form of the one-armed postman chanced to round the corner at this juncture, escorted by some five or six juvenile Blanchards. As he drew near he was observed to fumble in his bag, and presently halted before the group of matrons, his face wreathed with smiles. “I’ve got summat for ’ee to-day, Mrs. Stuckhey. Noos fro’ the front; a letter fro’ the soldier.” “Ah!” exclaimed Susan, and her small black eyes twinkled as she thrust forward an eager hand. The postman detached one letter from the packet which he drew forth from his bag, and, after it had passed from his possession, proceeded to tighten the string which was tied round the remainder, his teeth coming very deftly to the assistance of his fingers. “He be with Buller, bain’t he?” he inquired, casting a sidelong glance at the mother as she hastily unfastened the envelope. “E-es, he’s wi’ _Mr._ Buller,” corrected Mrs. Stuckhey. “Mr. Buller! Be that what ye d’ call him?” and the postman’s keen eyes twinkled. “Well, it do seem more respectful like for I. Joe, he do say the General; but it seems more natural for me to say Mr. Buller.” “I thought it was Lord Buller,” observed Mrs. Blanchard doubtfully. “Well, never mind; Buller’s enough for I,” said the postman. “Does your son chance to say if they’re pretty near Ladysmith now?” His much-frayed string seemed somewhat knotted, and opportunities of hearing news direct from the front were sufficiently rare to justify a little extra care in disentangling it. Mrs. Stuckhey drew forth and unfolded the missive, and her audience duly composed themselves. Even Mrs. Woolridge was conscious of a certain unwilling interest which she endeavoured to disguise by an attitude of indifference—head thrown back, nose screwed up, hands planted negligently on hips.