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