“Thank ’ee kindly, sir, for them words,” she said. “They be a’most the first bit o’ comfort I’ve a-had.” “I’m sure Mr. J’yce do speak beautiful,” murmured Mrs. Blanchard admiringly. “There, I never heared the like, not without ’twas out of a noospaper. I’m sure it did ought to comfort ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey.” “Nay, now, ’tis nothin’ to speak on,” returned Mr. Joyce modestly. “My mind do seem to turn to them parodies easy like. D’ye mind about the rabbits? ‘Rabbits wi’ guns,’ says I. Haw, haw! I can scarce tell how them notions do come to my mind.” “It be wonderful, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Blanchard. “As I do tell Mrs. Stuckhey, it ought to comfort her, poor soul. Mrs. Stuckhey have just been a-layin’ out five-and-sixpence for something rather partic’lar—haven’t ’ee, my dear? I d’ ’low Mr. J’yce ’ud like to see what you’ve got in that there parcel.” “He be welcome, I’m sure,” said Susan, wiping her eyes again and sniffing. She drew from under her cloak a round object carefully enveloped in tissue paper. “I’d like to show it to ’ee, sir, if I mid make so bold. There, I got me this wi’ a few shillin’ I’d been a-layin’ by for to make a kind o’ little feast for my son when he did come home. I wasn’t never expectin’ as he wouldn’t come home, ye know; there did seem to be so many of ’em a-fightin’.” Poor mother! while her Joe had lived he had been for her the only soldier; now that he was dead her thoughts dwelt ceaselessly on the vast size of the army of which he had formed a part, and it seemed to her strange and hard that while thousands were spared her _one_ had been stricken down. While she spoke she had removed the paper wrappers, and now held up to Mr. Joyce’s admiring, yet somewhat doubtful gaze, a large china wreath, such as may frequently be seen in village churchyards, composed of stiff white roses and conventional leaves. “It be a beauty, Mrs. Stuckhey,” said the farmer hesitatingly. “There, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an ’andsomer one. But I’m wonderin’ how ye mean to manage about it, seein’ as, so to speak, there bain’t no grave—not handy, I mean. There be a grave, as I telled ’ee, and an honoured grave—the grave o’ the British soldier; but it wouldn’t be”—he coughed delicately—“convenient for ’ee to put wreaths on, I’m afeared; nay, I’m afeared it wouldn’t be easy.” “Lard, no, sir, I wasn’t a-thinkin’ o’ usin’ it for the grave. Even if I was to send it to the War Office I couldn’t trust ’em to put it on for me. And it wouldn’t be no comfort anyhow wi’out I could see it there. Nay, I be a-going to hang this round my son’s likeness; ’twill be a kind of a memory of his grave as I can’t see it.” “Well, well,” said Mr. Joyce, deeply moved.