She would miss Dick’s constant visits when she had got to the other side, his grumpiness and his whistle, and his rough, outspoken comments. It would be a bit of a nuisance, too, to have to get used to dealing with new tradespeople. Shopfolk took a lot of getting to know, wherever you happened to be, but she had long since got the better of hers. The grocer would never dream, nowadays, of sending her any but the right bacon, the right sugar, the right tea. As for the butcher, he had long ago given up trying to palm off on her any piece of meat except the one that she happened to ask for. It was a triumph to have got as far as that with a butcher, as anybody could tell you, and one that could hardly be achieved twice within the limits of a lifetime. She had a distinct feeling of dismay when she thought of having to start again with a fresh butcher. Ellen’s packet was still in her hand, and she stood looking down at it without attempting to open it. For the first time in her life she had not been altogether pleased to see Ellen’s handwriting, and she could not understand it. At sight of it she had had a sensation of interference affecting her almost to physical recoil. She had been so near to her children during the night that a message arriving so soon afterwards seemed bound to break the spell. Nor was the position bettered by the fact that the packet should have reached her the day before. There was something casual yet calculated about its coming this morning which seemed to jar the serene procession of ordained events. Ellen ought to have known, she found herself saying senselessly, that after last night there was no need to keep sending packets any more. It was a photograph that she held, she felt sure of that, and one for which she had long been waiting. Among the many snapshots arriving year by year there had never been one of Ellen, arm in arm with a husband, or half hidden behind a baby. She had never “taken” well, even in her youth, and, once over the water, had firmly refused to be “taken” at all. Always she had resisted her mother’s demands in that light, laughing way of hers which seemed to bring her so closely to you. No photograph, so Mattie had often felt, could possibly seem more real than the Ellen who came to you with her letters. She had continued to ask for one, nevertheless, and at long last had come the news that it would shortly be forthcoming. Ellen had written an amusing account of her visit to the photographer’s and of her sufferings during the proceedings. The result, however, it seemed, had been an unexpected success, and should presently be forwarded to her mother. Mattie had watched for that precious packet as a hen waits and watches for a hatching chicken. She could not have been more thrilled, she sometimes thought, if it had been Ellen herself who was coming through the post!