A fortnight before, the old man had received a letter from the captain of his son’s company in France sympathetically announcing to him the death in hospital of his eldest son, from severe wounds received in a raid, and assuring him he might feel complete confidence ’that everything that could be done for your poor boy has been done.’

The news had brought woe to the cottage where the old man and his wife lived alone, since the fledging of their sturdy brood, under a spur of Loughrigg.  The wife, being now a feeble body, had taken to her bed under the shock of grief; the old man had gone to his work as usual, ’nobbut a bit queerer in his wits,’ according to the farmer who employed him.  Then after three days came a hurried letter of apology from the captain, and a letter from the chaplain, to say there had been a most deplorable mistake, and ’your son, I am glad to say, was only slightly wounded, and is doing well!’

Under so much contradictory emotion, old Backhouse’s balance had wavered a good deal.  He received Nelly’s remarks with a furtive smile, as though he were only waiting for her to have done, and when they ceased, he drew a letter slowly from his pocket.

‘D’ye see that, Mum?’

Nelly nodded.

‘I’se juist gotten it from t’ Post Office.  They woant gie ye noothin’ till it’s forced oot on ’em.  But I goa regular, an to-day owd Jacob—­’at’s him as keps t’ Post Office—­handed it ower.  It’s from Donald, sure enoof.’

He held it up triumphantly.  Nelly’s heart leapt—­and sank.  How often in the first months of her grief had she seen—­in visions—­that blessed symbolic letter held up by some ministering hand!—­only to fall from the ecstasy of the dream into blacker depths of pain.

‘Oh, Mr. Backhouse, I’m so glad!’ was all she could find to say.  But her sweet trembling face spoke for her.  After a pause, she added—­’Does he write with his own hand?’

‘You mun see for yorsel’.’  He held it out to her.  She looked at it mystified.

‘But it’s not opened!’

‘I hadna juist me spectacles,’ said Father Time, cautiously.  ’Mebbee yo’ll read it to me.’

‘But it’s to his mother!’ cried Nelly.  ’I can’t open your wife’s letter!’

‘You needn’t trooble aboot that.  You read it, Mum.  There’ll be noothin’ in it.’

He made her read it.  There was nothing in it.  It was just a nice letter from a good boy, saying that he had been knocked over in ’a bit of a scrap,’ but was nearly all right, and hoped his father and mother were well, ‘as it leaves me at present.’  But when it was done, Father Time took off his hat, bent his grey head, and solemnly thanked his God, in broad Westmorland.  Nelly’s eyes swam, as she too bowed the head, thinking of another who would never come back; and Tommy, thumb in mouth, leant against her, listening attentively.

At the end of the thanksgiving however, Backhouse raised his head briskly.