other. But the hour had now come for the performance of Ould Michael's
monthly duty. The opening of the mail was a solemn proceeding. The bag
was carried in from the stage by Ould Michael, followed by the entire
crowd in a kind of triumphal procession, and reverently deposited upon
the counter. The key was taken down from its hook above the window,
inserted into the lock, turned with a flourish and then hung up in its
place. From his pocket Ould Michael then took a clasp-knife with a
wicked-looking, curved blade, which he laid beside the bag. He then
placed a pair of spectacles on his nose and, in an impressive manner and
amidst dead silence, opened the bag, poured out its contents upon the
counter, turned it inside out and carefully shook it. No one in the
crowd moved. With due deliberation Ould Michael, with the wicked-looking
clasp knife, proceeded to cut the strings binding the various bundles of
letters and papers. The papers were then deposited beneath the counter
upon the floor, and the letters spread out upon the counter. The last
act of the ceremony was the selecting by Ould Michael of his own letter
from the pile, after which, with a waive of the hand, he declared,
"Gentlemen, the mail is open," when they flung themselves upon it with
an eagerness that told of the heart-hunger for news from a far-country
that is like cool water to the thirsty soul.

The half-hour that followed the distribution of the mail offered a scene
strange and touching. The men who had received letters stood away from
the crowd and read them with varying expressions of delight or grief, or
in silence that spoke more deeply than could any words. For that
half-hour the lonely valleys in these deep forests stood back from them,
and there opened up a vision of homes far away, filled with faces and
echoing with voices that some of them knew they would never see nor hear
again.

But no man ever saw Ould Michael read his letter. That half-hour he
spent in his inner room and, when he came out, there was lingering about
his face a glory as of a departing vision. The dark-blue eyes were
darker than before and in them that soft, abstracted look that one sees
in the eye of a child just awakened from sleep. His tongue, so ready at
other times, would be silent; and he would move softly over to his
friend McFarquhar, and stand there as in a dream. As he came toward us
on this occasion, McFarquhar said, in an undertone: "It is good news
to-day with Oul