ON'T YOU THINK, JAMES, YOU WOULD LIKE TO JOIN LORD
KITCHENER'S ARMY?"

_Peaceful Footman._ "THANK YOU, MUM, BUT I DON'T SEE AS 'OW I'D BE
BETTERING MYSELF. WAR'S FOR THEM AS LIKES IT, WHICH I NEVER DID."

* * * * *

DOUBT.

The War has caused one thing (among others). It has filled me with an
infinite distrust of human testimony. Were I on a jury I should find
every one "Not guilty" now--unless, of course, the prisoner were foolish
enough to bring evidence on his own behalf. It is not the German Press
Bureau that has done this. It has maintained its customary high standard
with magnificent consistency.

My faith in human testimony has been shattered by Mactavish's uncle,
Bloomer's maiden aunt, and Wiggins' brother-in-law. I put on one side
the statement of Mirfin's grandmother because her allegation that 193
trains passed her house one night might have been based on the shunting
of a single goods train. One knows the fiendish persistency of the
shunted goods train at night.

But let me take the bald statement of Mactavish's uncle. He is a
baillie, an elder and a drysalter. He wrote to Mactavish:--"I regret
that the attendance at the Kirk on Sunday was most unsatisfactory. The
younger members of the congregation were all watching the disembarcation
of the Cossacks. I understand that the Established Kirk held no services
at all. I did not feel it consistent with a proper observance of the
Sabbath to go and watch them myself, so I only saw by chance, and not
intentionally, the six regiments which marched past my house."

What could be more conclusive than that?

The very next day Bloomer met me and produced a much-crossed letter from
his pocket. "Just read the last few lines," he said triumphantly.

I read with zest.

"Damsons are very cheap this year. I am jamming an extra quantity. Do
you think pots of jam could be safely sent to the chaplains at the
front? Kiss the dear baby for me. Excuse a longer letter, but I am quite
worn out with handing hot meat pies to the Russian troops passing
through here.

Ever your affectionate Aunt,

MILLICENT BLOOMER."

Not "meat pies," mark you, but "hot meat pies." Somehow that little
touch won my absolute belief.

Now we come to the solemn statement of Wiggins' brother-in-law. He is,
according to Wiggins, a patriot of the finest type--only prevented from
going to the front by the claims of business, a family of nine, and a
certain superf