write a letter to his wife.

It was plainly to be an effort, for apart from the fact that he was never a scholar there was the added uncertainty of his long disused right hand to be reckoned with; but at last he grasped the pencil with all the firmness he could muster and began:—

"DEAR WIFE,—I got your letter about Jim he ought to gone long ago, shirking I calls it. This hospital is very nice and when you come down from London youll see all the flowers and the gramophone which is a fair treat. My wounds is slow and I often gets cramp."

No sooner was the fatal word written than the fingers of his right hand began to stiffen, the pencil fell upon the bed, then rolled dejectedly to the floor, where the writer said it might stay for all he cared.

"You must let me finish the letter," said I, when his hand had been rubbed and tucked away in a warm mitten.

"Thank you, Miss; I was getting on nicely, and there's not much more to say," he returned ruefully, scanning the wavering lines before him.

"Well, shall I go on for a bit and let you wind up," said I, unscrewing my pen and taking the pad on my knee.

"Me telling you what to put like?" he asked with a look of pleased relief.

"That's it. Just say what you would write down yourself."

He cleared his throat.

"DEAR WIFE," he resumed, "the wounds is ... awful, not letting me write at all. The one in my back is as long as your arm, and they says it will heal quicker than the one in my knee, which has two tubes in which they squirts strong-smelling stuff through. The foot is a pretty sight, as big as half a melon, and I doubts ever being able to put it to the ground again, though they says I shall. I gets very stiff at nights and the pain sometimes is cruel, but they gives me a prick with the morphia needle then which makes me dream something beautiful...."

There was a pause while he indulged in a smiling reverie.

"Perhaps we have said enough about your pains," I ventured, when, returning from his visions, he puckered his brows in fresh thought. "Your wife might be frightened if—"

"Not her," he interrupted proudly. "She's a rare good nurse herself, and it would take more than that to turn her up."

I shook my pen; he shifted his head a little and continued:—

"DEAR WIFE,—If you could see my shoulder dressed of a morning you would laugh. They cuts out little pieces of lint like a picture puzzle to fit the places, and I've got a regular map of Blighty all down my arm; but that's not so bad as my back, which I cannot see and which the wound is as long—"

I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed the space left for further cheerful communications.

"Shall I leave this for you to finish?" I suggested, thinking of tender messages difficult to dictate. "Your fingers may be better after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning."

"That's all right, Miss. There's nothing more to put except my name, if you'll just say, "Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this finds you well as it leaves me at present."

Fair Warning.

"A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On Friday, 2nd November."—Scotch Paper.

CURRAGH MEETING.