s with her broom-handle as she spoke, and even the
boldest turned and fled. Oswald was even the boldest. 'They looked like
weeds right enough,' he said.

And Dicky said, 'It all comes of trying to do golden deeds.' This was
when we were out in the road.

As we went along, in a silence full of gloomy remorse, we met the
postman. He said--

'Here's the letters for the Moat,' and passed on hastily. He was a bit
late.

When we came to look through the letters, which were nearly all for
Albert's uncle, we found there was a postcard that had got stuck in a
magazine wrapper. Alice pulled it out. It was addressed to Mrs Simpkins.
We honourably only looked at the address, although it is allowed by the
rules of honourableness to read postcards that come to your house if you
like, even if they are not for you.

After a heated discussion, Alice and Oswald said they were not afraid,
whoever was, and they retraced their steps, Alice holding the postcard
right way up, so that we should not look at the lettery part of it, but
only the address.

With quickly-beating heart, but outwardly unmoved, they walked up to the
white cottage door.

It opened with a bang when we knocked.

'Well?' Mrs Simpkins said, and I think she said it what people in books
call 'sourly'.

Oswald said, 'We are very, very sorry we spoiled your turnips, and we
will ask my father to try and make it up to you some other way.'

She muttered something about not wanting to be beholden to anybody.

'We came back,' Oswald went on, with his always unruffled politeness,
'because the postman gave us a postcard in mistake with our letters, and
it is addressed to you.'

'We haven't read it,' Alice said quickly. I think she needn't have said
that. Of course we hadn't. But perhaps girls know better than we do what
women are likely to think you capable of.

The soldier's mother took the postcard (she snatched it really, but
'took' is a kinder word, considering everything) and she looked at the
address a long time. Then she turned it over and read what was on the
back. Then she drew her breath in as far as it would go, and caught hold
of the door-post. Her face got awful. It was like the wax face of a dead
king I saw once at Madame Tussaud's.

Alice understood. She caught hold of the soldier's mother's hand and
said--

'Oh, NO--it's NOT your boy Bill!'

And the woman said nothing, but shoved the postcard into Alice's hand,
and we both read it--and it WAS her