than a day's lapse in their delivery. But suddenly the cards ceased to arrive, and then came a telegram from the War Office saying that Gunner So-and-so, of such-and-such a brigade of the R.F.A., had been killed in action.
It was a paralysing shock. Death in war, especially in a war like this, a war of shells, has a stupefying effect for which life has perhaps no parallel—being yet more stunning than death in Eastern countries, where you may dine with a friend one day and follow his funeral on the next. But there was just one ray of hope in this case. The number of the brigade was wrong. The War Office was appealed to and it found there were two gunners of the same name and initials in the R.F.A. The War Office would inquire, but the inquiry would take time, and the young wife must be patient. She tried to be, still cherishing another expectation. The postcards would begin to come again. There had been trouble in the Channel, and perhaps that had stopped them. But
