I.

'Am safe,' the telegram said tersely, in Billings's ungrammatical English. 'Martin wounded, progressing favourable.—Joshua.'

Mrs Billings, drying her eyes with a handkerchief, read it for the third time. 'Emmeline!' she called softly, going to the door of the sitting-room at the back of the shop.

'Yes, mother.'

'There's news, my gal!'

'News!' cried her daughter, darting forward.

The elder woman sniffed loudly and held out the flimsy paper. 'Read that, my dear.'

The girl snatched it in her agitation. 'Martin wounded, progressing favourable,' she read slowly. 'My Bill wounded!' She stood there for a moment wide-eyed and swaying ominously. Then her pent-up feelings overcame her, and, collapsing suddenly on to a chair, she fell forward with her head on the table and her face buried in her hands. Her whole body shook with sobs.

Her mother was at her side in an instant. 'There, there, my pretty,' she murmured consolingly, patting her daughter on the shoulder; 'don't take on so. Don't cry, my gal. He's only wounded.' She was crying herself.

But Emmeline refused to be comforted. 'My Bill's wounded!' she moaned again and again.

Mrs Billings leant down and put her arms round the girl's neck. 'Don't take on so, dear,' she said huskily, with the tears streaming down her own face; 'it's all right, my pet. There, there,' as Emmeline shook with another paroxysm of sobbing, 'don't fret; it's all right; he's only wounded. We've—b-both got a—deal to be thankful for.'

Mother and daughter wept together.

For the last forty-eight hours they had both been living in a state of awful suspense. First had come the tidings of the engagement in the North Sea, with the depressing information that the British losses had been very heavy. Then came the news that eight destroyers had been sunk; but no mention of the Mariner. They had no means of finding out whether or not she had even taken part in the battle; but both of them, with dismal forebodings in their hearts, had made up their minds for the worst.

All day and all night the two women had prayed and hoped. The agony of their suspense was almost more than they could bear, and their hearts nearly broke during that frightful period of waiting. Emmeline, pale-faced and red-eyed, went to the railway station twice a day to procure the earliest copies of the morning and evening newspapers. Together they had read them eagerly, trying to piece together some sort of a connected narrative to relieve their tortured minds. But still there was nothing about the Mariner. They read about the desperate destroyer attacks on the German fleet, and of the losses incurred by the British flotillas. They could not bring themselves to believe that 'no news was good news.'

Emmeline looked up with the tears still trickling down her face, and reaching for her handkerchief, proceeded to dab her eyes. 'I'm a fool,' she said, sniffing; 'I suppose I ought to be thankful he isn't killed.'

Her mother kissed her gently. 'There, there, my dear,' she said softly; 'that's better. Be brave. It's all over now.'

The girl dried her eyes, rose from her chair, and walked slowly across to the mirror over the mantelpiece. 'Lor'!' she said bravely, a little smile hovering round the corners of her quivering mouth; 'I do look a sight, and no mistake!'