guns, fighting comrades, striking foes, will make brutes of us all.  It is wrong to shed another man’s blood.  If life was meant for that why do we have progress?  I cannot reconcile a God with all this horror.  I have misgivings about my mind.  If I feel so acutely here in safety and comfort, what shall I feel over there in peril and agony?  I fear I shall laugh at death.  Oh, Lenore, consider that!  To laugh in the ghastly face of death!  If I yield utterly to a fiendish joy of bloody combat, then my mind will fail, and that in itself would be evidence of God.

    I do not read over my letters to you, I just write.  Forgive me if
    they are not happier.  Every hour I think of you.  At night I see your
    face in the shadow of the tent wall.  And I love you unutterably.

    Faithfully,

    Kurt Dorn.

    Camp ——­, November —­,

    Dear Sister,—­It’s bad news I’ve got for you this time.  Something
    bids me tell you, though up to now I’ve kept unpleasant facts to
    myself.

The weather has knocked me out.  My cold came back, got worse and worse.  Three days ago I had a chill that lasted for fifteen minutes.  I shook like a leaf.  It left me, and then I got a terrible pain in my side.  But I didn’t give in, which I feel now was a mistake.  I stayed up till I dropped.

I’m here in the hospital.  It’s a long shed with three stoves, and a lot of beds with other sick boys.  My bed is far away from a stove.  The pain is bad yet, but duller, and I’ve fever.  I’m pretty sick, honey.  Tell mother and dad, but not the girls.  Give my love to all.  And don’t worry.  It’ll all come right in the end.  This beastly climate’s to blame.

Later,—­It’s night now.  I was interrupted.  I’ll write a few more lines.  Hope you can read them.  It’s late and the wind is moaning outside.  It’s so cold and dismal.  The fellow in the bed next to me is out of his head.  Poor devil!  He broke his knee, and they put off the operation—­too busy!  So few doctors and so many patients!  And now he’ll lose his leg.  He’s talking about home.  Oh, Lenore! Home! I never knew what home was—­till now.

I’m worse to-night.  But I’m always bad at night.  Only, to-night I feel strange.  There’s a weight on my chest, besides the pain.  That moan of wind makes me feel so lonely.  There’s no one here—­and I’m so cold.  I’ve thought a lot about you girls and mother and dad.  Tell dad I made good.

    Jim

CHAPTER XXV

Jim’s last letter was not taken seriously by the other members of the Anderson family.  The father shook his head dubiously.  “That ain’t like Jim,” but made no other comment.  Mrs. Anderson sighed.  The young sisters were not given to worry.  Lenore, however, was haunted by an unwritten meaning in her brother’s letter.