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til, on one particular day, there came--metaphorically speaking--what is known among the Scottish hills as a spate. It began with the arrival of a mail from England. This was not indeed a matter of rare occurrence, but it was one of those incidents of the campaign which never lost its freshness, and always sent a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of the men--powerfully in the case of those who received letters and packets; sympathetically in those who got none. "At long last!" exclaimed Corporal Flynn, who was observed by his comrades, after the delivery of the mail, to be tenderly struggling with the complicated folds of a remarkable letter--remarkable for its crookedness, size, dirt, and hieroglyphic superscription. "What is it, Flynn?" asked Moses--one of the unfortunates who had received no letter by that mail. "A letter, sure. Haven't ye got eyes, Moses?" "From your wife, corporal?" "Wife!" exclaimed Flynn, with scorn; "no! It's mesilf wouldn't take the gift of a wife gratis. The letter is from me owld grandmother, an' she's better to me than a dozen wives rowled into wan. It's hard work the writin' of it cost her too--poor owld sowl! But she'd tear her eyes out to plaze me, she would. `Corporal, darlint,'--that's always the way she begins her letters now; she's that proud o' me since I got the stripes. I thowt me mother or brother would have writ me too, but they're not half as proud of me as my--" "Shut up, Flynn!" cried one of the men, who was trying to decipher a letter, the penmanship of which was obviously the work of an unaccustomed hand. "Howld it upside down; sometimes they're easier to read that way--more sinsible-like," retorted the corporal. "Blessin's on your sweet face!" exclaimed Armstrong, looking at a photograph which he had just extracted from his letter. "Hallo, Bill! that your sweetheart?" asked Sergeant Hardy, who was busy untying a parcel. "Ay, sweetheart an' wife too," answered the young soldier, with animation. "Let me see it, Willie," said Miles, who was also one of the disconsolate non-receivers, disconsolate because he had fully expected a reply to the penitent letter which he had written to his mother. "First-rate, that's Emmy to a tee. A splendid likeness!" exclaimed Miles, holding the photograph to the light. "Arrah! then, it's dead he must be!" The extreme perplexity displayed in Flynn's face as he said this and scratched his head produced a
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