Poor Susan had begun to weep again, and Mrs. Blanchard was not slow to follow her example. They moved away together, and presently, entering Mrs. Stuckhey’s house, proceeded to hang the wreath over poor Joe’s picture. After much hammering of tacks and knotting of string the task was completed, and the dead soldier’s chubby boyish face greeted all beholders through its white garland. “’Tis beautiful, I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs. Blanchard, falling back a little and speaking in a tone of almost awestruck admiration. “The uniform, you know, and the goldy frame, and the white flowers—I never seed anything so handsome.” “’Tis his due,” said Mrs. Stuckhey, and she was conscious of a return of the glow of pride with which she had, a little time before, listened to the farmer’s allegory, and with that pride came a faint vague sense of comfort: at least her hero was honoured. The poor must be up and doing; not theirs is the luxury of nursing grief. Though Susan Stuckhey’s heart might be sore, and many hot tears might drop into the suds as she bent over her wash-tub, her clients’ clean clothes must be sent home. She could not manage, however, to be quite so prompt as usual this particular week, and it chanced that on the Thursday—contrary to all precedent—she was hanging up some of the finer garments on her line to dry, when she was startled by what seemed to be the sound of an explosion. “They be blastin’ up yonder,” she said to herself, and went on with her task. But the sound was repeated several times, and the neighbours began to come to their doors and to look towards the town, whence the sound proceeded. “It do seem like firin’,” said Mrs. Blanchard with placid interest. By-and-bye, a lad came tearing down the lane, waving his hat and shouting. “’Tis relieved!” he cried. “Ladysmith be relieved! ’Tis true this time. It be wrote up in the town ‘Official noos’. They be firin’ a cannon near the Royal George, and the flags is up, and there’s to be a procession this evenin’, and every one’s goin’ mad for joy!” Mrs. Stuckhey’s knees shook under her; she dropped the handkerchief which she had been pinning up, and covered her face with her hands. “There, don’t ’ee take on,” said Mrs. Blanchard, commiseratingly. “Ye’d be like to feel it, I know; dear, yes, ’tis to be expected.” “Well, now, I should think Mrs. Stuckhey ought to be glad,” said Mrs. Woolridge, surveying the washerwoman critically from her doorstep. “There be mothers’ sons in Ladysmith so well as anywhere else; ah, sure there be. Many a woman’s heart has been a-breakin’ thinkin’ of ’em starvin’ and famishin’ there. ’Twouldn’t bring your son back a bit more if they was to perish o’ hunger. You ought to be glad like the rest of us.” “I am glad,” gasped poor Susan; and with that she turned, leaving her basket, and went into her house.