assuring them that he was keeping a watchful eye on them. This should have been consoling, but every hour, every instant, was now of importance. Still there was no lack of pluck. These men who had beaten the Boers three times were confident that they would make a good fight of it to the last. "We'll not surrender till half of us are killed," they said, and the gallant fellows, in their trenches, under a storm of shot and shell, pursued their games of cards as though they meant to "sit tight till Doomsday." Of them an officer writing at this time said: "The defence, so far, has been heroic. In the Crimea twenty-four hours on and twenty-four hours off was considered hard work. My men have been ten days in their trenches without leaving them, wet to the skin oftener than not, and day and night exposed to shrapnel, not able to raise their hand above without getting a bullet through them, and yet not a grumble is heard. As I sit scrawling this in pencil, with my back against the damp earth, the jest goes round, and peals of laughter follow the sallies of your light-hearted countrymen from the Emerald Isle. I positively love these men, and shall never forget, in spite of the ague attacks and the racked head, the enjoyment of these hours spent packed, all arms and legs, in the mass of humanity which fills these trenches--the work of our own hands." They had tasted neither bread nor biscuits for a week. Fortunately they had meat in plenty, and occasionally certain meal-cakes which, though filling, brought about a sensation graphically described as "hippopotamus on the chest." Some one declared they were quite as hard and nearly as damaging as Boer bullets! In spite, however, of their assumed jocosity they could not but be cognisant of the fact that, what with damp and dysentery, irregular meals, tainted water, poor medical appliances, and indifferent stores, the future was threatening. Questions as to the coming of the promised relief began to be anxiously bandied about, and now and again a terrible doubt crept in that it might never come at all. Easter Monday they thought of as Bank Holiday in England. They pictured the gay Cockney multitude scampering free in parks and sunshine while they, huddled together in a deluge of perpetual rain, were wondering if life in trenches was worth living. Then some one, a philosopher, declared you couldn't get a daily rain-water bath at home for love or money, and they laughingly made the best of it. They wallowed in damp and mud, and counted on their fingers that there had been eight days of hard fighting, and wondered how many more they were good for. Books were scarce and conversation monotonous. "Any signs of Brabant or Gatacre?" some one would question. "None. I guess they've got lost somewhere." "Any chance of the rain stopping?" "None. We shall have deluges to-morrow." So passed the time between Job and his comforters.