Well, the letter, as I have said, could not be delivered. The postal people at the Front, and behind the Front, are astonishingly good, but they could not get in touch with the brother this time, and therefore they opened the letter and looked at the foot of it for the name of the writer and found that of the dog, and at the head of it for the street and town where the writer lived, and sent it back as "insufficiently addressed." And that is why in a certain house in Chelsea a treasured possession is a returned letter for General SMUTS. * * * * * From an article entitled "Is it Safe for Cousins to marry?":-- "It is just as well, however, to pick out somebody besides your cousin for your wife." _The Family Doctor_. Before acting on this advice, however, it might be safer to consult The Family Lawyer. * * * * * [Illustration: AFTER A DAY ON THE ALLOTMENT. "SUDDENLY SHE REALISED THAT HER IDOL HAD FEET OF CLAY."--_Extract from popular novel_.] * * * * * THE VERY GLAD EYE. Mother put down the key of the hen-house and took up the letters that lay beside her plate. "If only Joan would write larger," she sighed, turning over an envelope across which an ant seemed to have walked and left an inky trail. "I've mislaid my glass too, and shan't be able to read a word. Where could I have put the miserable thing?" she asked, peering again at the ridiculous little script. Father put down his paper and said these hunts for Aunt Matilda were getting monotonous. Only yesterday he had rescued her from some dried bulbs in the greenhouse, and didn't Mother think it time she saw a good oculist and had proper spectacles, instead of using the old lens in that carved gold bauble belonging once to his grandmother's aunt. "Perhaps it's just a bad habit," she answered with a smile, "or my eyes are getting lazy. But really I can see _so_ well through it, and if they would print the newspapers better--" "No one we know in this morning's list," said Father shortly, as he turned a sheet; "and we should be hearing from those rascals now that the push is over," he added, glancing at Mother who began to sip her coffee hurriedly. "They might even get leave together," ventured Margery. "It's five months since Dick came home, and as for Christopher--" "What swank for old Margots, now her hair is up," piped Archie. "Two brothers from the trenches to--" "If you'd make a little less noise, my son," said Father in a strange voice, "I might be able to take in what I'm reading. There's something here about Christopher." "What?" cried Mother, springing from her chair. "Yes, it's Christopher plain enough," he repeated with shining eyes. "Christopher Charles Bentley, and--God bless my soul!--the boy has been splendid! It's all down here, and--- "Read, read!" we clamoured, as his voice grew husky and indistinct.