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СКАЧАТЬ we signed our names.

      Alice took the letter.

      The soldier's mother read it, and said something about our oughting to know better than to make fun of people's troubles with our tombstones and tomfoolery.

      Alice told me she could not help crying.

      She said:

      "It's not! it's not! Dear, dear Mrs. Simpkins, do come with me and see! You don't know how sorry we are about Bill. Do come and see. We can go through the church-yard, and the others have all gone in, so as to leave it quiet for you. Do come."

      And Mrs. Simpkins did. And when she read what we had put up, and Alice told her the verse we had not had room for, she leaned against the wall by the grave—I mean the tombstone—and Alice hugged her, and they both cried bitterly. The poor soldier's mother was very, very pleased. And she forgave us about the turnips, and we were friends after that, but she always liked Alice the best. A great many people do, somehow.

      After that we used to put fresh flowers every day on Bill's tombstone, and I do believe his mother was pleased, though she got us to move it away from the church-yard edge and put it in a corner of our garden under a laburnum, where people could not see it from the church. But you could from the road, though I think she thought you couldn't. She came every day to look at the new wreaths. When the white flowers gave out we put colored, and she liked it just as well.

      About a fortnight after the erecting of the tombstone the girls were putting fresh wreaths on it when a soldier in a red coat came down the road, and he stopped and looked at us. He walked with a stick, and he had a bundle in a blue cotton handkerchief and one arm in a sling.

      And he looked again, and he came nearer, and he leaned on the wall, so that he could read the black printing on the white paint.

      And he grinned all over his face, and he said:

      "Well, I am blessed!"

      And he read it all out in a sort of half whisper, and when he came to the end, where it says, "and all such brave soldiers," he said:

      "Well, I really am!" I suppose he meant he really was blessed.

      Oswald thought it was like the soldier's cheek, so he said:

      "I dare say you aren't so very blessed as you think. What's it to do with you, anyway, eh, Tommy?"

      Of course Oswald knew from Kipling that an infantry soldier is called that. The soldier said:

      "Tommy yourself, young man. That's me!" and he pointed to the tombstone.

      We stood rooted to the spot. Alice spoke first.

      "Then you're Bill, and you're not dead," she said, "Oh, Bill, I am so glad! Do let me tell your mother."

      She started running, and so did we all. Bill had to go slowly because of his leg, but I tell you he went as fast as ever he could.

      We all hammered at the soldier's mother's door, and shouted:

      "Come out! come out!" and when she opened the door we were going to speak, but she pushed us away, and went tearing down the garden path like winking. I never saw a grown-up woman run like it, because she saw Bill coming.

      She met him at the gate, running right into him, and caught hold of him, and she cried much more than when she thought he was dead.

      And we all shook his hand and said how glad we were.

      The soldier's mother kept hold of him with both hands, and I couldn't help looking at her face. It was like wax that had been painted pink on both cheeks, and the eyes shining like candles. And when we had all said how glad we were, she said:

      "Thank the dear Lord for His mercies," and she took her boy Bill into the cottage and shut the door.

      We went home and chopped up the tombstone with the wood-axe and had a blazing big bonfire, and cheered till we could hardly speak.

      The post-card was a mistake; he was only missing. There was a pipe and a whole pound of tobacco left over from our keepsake to the other soldiers. We gave it to Bill. Father is going to have him for under-gardener when his wounds get well. He'll always be a bit lame, so he cannot fight any more.

      I am very glad some soldiers' mothers get their boys home again.

      But if they have to die, it is a glorious death; and I hope mine will be that.

      And three cheers for the Queen, and the mothers who let their boys go, and the mothers' sons who fight and die for old England. Hip, hip, hurrah!

      The Tower of Mystery

       Table of Contents

      It was very rough on Dora having her foot bad, but we took it in turns to stay in with her, and she was very decent about it. Daisy was most with her. I do not dislike Daisy, but I wish she had been taught how to play. Because Dora is rather like that naturally, and sometimes I have thought that Daisy makes her worse.

      I talked to Albert's uncle about it one day when the others had gone to church, and I did not go because of earache, and he said it came from reading the wrong sort of books partly—she has read Ministering Children, and Anna Ross, or The Orphan of Waterloo, and Ready Work for Willing Hands, and Elsie, or Like a Little Candle, and even a horrid little blue book about the something or other of Little Sins. After this conversation Oswald took care she had plenty of the right sort of books to read, and he was surprised and pleased when she got up early one morning to finish Monte Cristo. Oswald felt that he was really being useful to a suffering fellow-creature when he gave Daisy books that were not all about being good.

      A few days after Dora was laid up Alice called a council of the Wouldbegoods, and Oswald and Dicky attended with darkly clouded brows. Alice had the minute-book, which was an exercise-book that had not much written in it. She had begun at the other end. I hate doing that myself, because there is so little room at the top compared with right way up.

      Dora and a sofa had been carried out on to the lawn, and we were on the grass. It was very hot and dry. We had sherbet. Alice read:

      "'Society of the Wouldbegoods.

      "'We have not done much. Dicky mended a window, and we got the milk-pan out of the moat that dropped through where he mended it. Dora, Oswald, Dicky and me got upset in the moat. This was not goodness. Dora's foot was hurt. We hope to do better next time.'"

      Then came Noël's poem:

      "'We are the Wouldbegoods Society,

       We are not good yet, but we mean to try.

       And if we try, and if we don't succeed,

       It must mean we are very bad indeed.'"

      This sounded so much righter than Noël's poetry generally does, that Oswald said so, and Noël explained that Denny had helped him.

      "He seems to know the right length for lines of poetry. СКАЧАТЬ