porch had rotted away and the roof over the little platform was tumbling down. A pane of glass was missing from the sitting room window.

But Joshua Hicks was not going to take any chances. So he playfully ruffled the dog’s hair to make sure that the collar was around the animal’s neck and having satisfied himself of this he strolled around in back of the house for an official inspection of the puddle or the pail. The United States government must be very thorough about these things; puddles especially....

There, sure enough, was the puddle, a perennial puddle, fed by a laughing, babbling, leaky drainpipe. Joshua Hicks dipped a finger in the mud and made sure of the puddle. He then looked for the pail, and not seeing it, put on his steel spectacles and glanced again at the envelope.

“A puddle or a pail,” he said. “I reckon that’s all right; it says or a pail.”

He was going to knock on the kitchen door, but he bethought him to make a supplementary inspection of the tumbled down porch roof. There could be no two opinions about that; even a profiteering landlord would have admitted the condition. And finally Postmaster Hicks satisfied himself in the best of all ways of the condition of the window, and that was by cutting his finger on a fragment of broken glass.

Staunch and true as he was, he was ready to shed his blood for his country.

CHAPTER II
AN ECHO OF THE WAR

Having satisfied himself beyond all doubt that this little white house was the proper destination of the letter, Joshua Hicks administered an authoritative knock on the front door. The response came in the form of a queer little old lady, who wore a very expectant look, a look almost pathetically expectant. She was slight and wizened, and stood straight. But her face was deeply wrinkled and her hair was snowy white.

There was something about her trim, erect little figure and white locks and furrowed cheeks which aroused sympathy; it would be hard to say why. Perhaps it was because her brisk little form suggested that she worked hard, and her thin heavily veined hands and wrinkled face reminded one that she ought not to work hard. There was a certain something about her which suggested that she was fighting a brave fight and keeping a good heart. At all events she wore a cheery smile.

“Joshua,” she said, “I was kinder hoping to see you over to-day. It’s good of you to bring it yourself. I wanted to put my name on it so’s you could get me the money in Centerville when you go.”

“Tain’t your pension, Mis’ Haskell,” Joshua said. “Leastways, I never seen no pensions come like this before. It’s like as if it wuz a letter turned inside out; all the writin’ is on the outside.”

“Jes’ when I’m needing my pension most it don’t come,” she said, taking the big envelope. “When I saw you prowling around in back I thought you was the sheriff’s man, mebbe. It give me a shock because–what’s this?”

“Don’t ask me, Mis’ Haskell,” said the postmaster. “It’s for you, I’m certain sure of that, and that’s all I can say.”

With trembling hand and a look of pathetic fear and apprehension, the old lady started to tear open the envelope, saying the while, “You don’t reckon W. Harris is one of them smart lawyers up New York way, do you, Joshua? I’m ready to get out when I have to. I’ve–I’ve stuck it out alone, I always said I could fight, but I can’t fight the law, Joshua. They don’t need to set no lawyers on me–they don’t.”

She opened the envelope, and unfolded a sheet of paper. It was old and faded and wrinkled. She glanced at it, then grasped the door jam with her thin,