the value of L3 16_s._ 1_d._ forwarded by an anonymous
donor."

When I looked up Joan was smiling significantly.

"Very nice," I commented, "but I see they've only acknowledged the
original amount I gave you. I thought you were going to double it."

"And so I have," said Joan. "He (or she) gives twice who gives quickly."

* * * * *

THE TERRORS OF WAR.

[_Being privileged extracts from two of next season's War
Romances._]

From _Pot-bank and Potsdam_:--

Edwin Clayhanger strolled dully down the Square. A squat dirty boy
shrieked: "Sentinel. Result of Bursley Match. War News--Official." Edwin
snatched a pink paper and under an anti-Zeppelin gas-lamp read that
Knipe had defeated Bursley Rovers by four goals to none. He crumpled the
paper in his hand and threw it disgustedly into the gutter, outside
Bates the cheesemonger's. Sam Bates emerged, picked up the paper and
confided to his assistant that "Young Edwin's brain is going, like old
Mr. Clayhanger's."

Chill mists enveloped the pot-banks. The glare of the Hanbridge furnaces
was subdued to a faint glimmer. The shout of a laughing crowd outside
the Blood Tub drew Edwin closer. He perceived in the midst of the throng
an elephant covered with Union Jacks. On its back stood Denry Machin,
the famous Card of the Five Towns, thrice Mayor of Bursley.

"Boys," cried the Card, "you can see the circus elephant free. You can
listen to me free. Hanbridge is going to raise a Pot-bank Company for
Kitchener's Army. They want us to raise one to match it. We're going one
better. Bursley will raise a Pot-bank Regiment. I just want a thousand
men to be going along with. Don't all speak at once."

The crowd shrieked with laughter at Bursley's only humorist.

Edwin Clayhanger thought deeply. For three years he had been waiting to
marry Hilda Lessways. Now the thought of 528 pages of married life with
her overwhelmed him. Up went his hand.

"We're doing fine," cried the Card. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine more
and off we march to Potsdam in the morning."

* * *

From _The Military Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_:--

I shrank down into a corner of the reserve trench. The fifteen inches of
half-frozen mud caused my old wound from an Afghan bullet to ache
viciously. I longed for some wounded to arrive--anything to end this
chilly inactivity. A tall officer in staff uniform jumped into the
trench beside me.

"You are wishing yoursel