mother telling him that Polly was walking out regularly with Jim
Dixon. The letter from Tom's mother was characteristic.

"Dear Tom," she wrote, "thou'st been fooled by Polly Powell. I always
said that Alice Lister was too good for thee, and thou used to get
vexed about it. A man is not to blame for his mother, he can't choose
her, so I can't blame thee for thy mother, but he is to be blamed for
his wife; he makes his own choice there, and the man as chooses Polly
Powell is a fool. When I wur a lass I lived on a farm, I wur only
sixteen when I came to Brunford, and the farmer I lived wi' always said
when he was buying a cow, 'be sure to look at the stock before you
close the bargin.' Look at the stock Polly Powell has come from. I
say nowt about her feyther because I don't know him, but I have seen
her mother, and that's enough for me. Polly is just the image of what
her mother was when she was her age. She's only twenty-four years
older than Polly, but she's like Bethesda Chapel, she's broader nor
she's long. That's what Polly will be in twenty years' time. Her
mother's got a mustash too, and Polly gives every sign of having one by
the time she's her mother's age. Besides, she's a flighty thing is
Polly, and has no stayin' power; she goes wi' one chap one week and
another the next. She's walked out wi' seven chaps since you left
Brunford, and she only took up wi' Jim Dixon again because he's making
a bit of brass. I daresay she'll tell you that she's only larking wi'
Jim, and is true to you all the time; but if I were thee I'd sack her.
There are plenty of lasses everywhere, and thou can do better nor her.

"I expect you will be going to France soon, and will be fighting them
Germans. If they find thee as hard to deal wi' as I have, they'll have
a tough job. But they are a bad lot, and I don't ask you to show 'em
any mercy.

"Your affectionate mother,
"MRS. MARTHA POLLARD.

"P.S.--Be sure to write and give Polly Powell the sack right away,
she's noan thy sort. If you come across that German Emperor, don't be
soft-hearted wi' 'im."

After Tom had read his mother's letter twice, he sat silent for some
time. "So she's going out with Jim Dixon," he reflected; "well, I'm
glad. After all, my liking for her was only top-water stuff, and she
was doing me no good." The next minute Tom was whistling his way
through the camp. "Yes," he continued, "mother's got what the writing
chaps call 'a good li