latter. Poor old thing, her joys are few and simple! Trade is not
so bad. A new line in poetical patriotical postcards is going
well. The poetry is the worst yet.

I am sending you some cigarettes with my uncle's best wishes and a
pair of socks with mine. Perhaps you have enough socks from home
already. If so, give them to W. T., and ask him from me to
practise blushing. He can begin by winking at himself in a mirror
thrice daily.

When are you going to get leave again? Miss Tod says I can get
away at 6, any night I want to. No; I don't want you to stop
putting those marks in your letters. If you can find one in this
letter, you may take it, and I hope it will make you half as happy
as I want you to be. Good-night.

CHRISTINA.




IX

THE FAT GIRL

Never a day passed without its camp rumour. If Macgregor was
disposed to be over-credulous, his friend Willie was sceptical
enough for two.

'I hear we're for the Dardanelles next week,' the former observed