“France! He’s in France?” she whispered.  “Oh, Kurt!” A storm of love and terror burst over her.  It had the onset and the advantage of a bewildering surprise.  It laid low, for the moment, her fortifications of sacrifice, strength, and resolve.  She had been forced into womanhood, and her fear, her agony, were all the keener for the intelligence and spirit that had repudiated selfish love.  Kurt Dorn was in France in the land of the trenches!  Strife possessed her and had a moment of raw, bitter triumph.  She bit her lips and clenched her fists, to restrain the impulse to rush madly around the room, to scream out her fear and hate.  With forcing her thought, with hard return to old well-learned arguments, there came back the nobler emotions.  But when she took up the letter again, with trembling hands, her heart fluttered high and sick, and she saw the words through blurred eyes.

    ...I’ll give the letter to an ensign, who has promised to mail it
    the moment he gets back to New York.

Lenore, your letter telling me about Jim was held up in the mail.  But thank goodness, I got it in time.  I’d already been transferred, and expected orders any day to go on board the transport, where I am writing now.  I’d have written you, or at least telegraphed you, yesterday, after seeing Jim, if I had not expected to see him again to-day.  But this morning we were marched on board and I cannot even get this letter off to you.

Lenore, your brother is a very sick boy.  I lost some hours finding him.  They did not want to let me see him.  But I implored—­said that I was engaged to his sister—­and finally I got in.  The nurse was very sympathetic.  But I didn’t care for the doctors in charge.  They seemed hard, hurried, brusque.  But they have their troubles.  The hospital was a long barracks, and it was full of cripples.

    The nurse took me into a small, bare room, too damp and cold for a
    sick man, and I said so.  She just looked at me.

Jim looks like you more than any other of the Andersons.  I recognized that at the same moment I saw how very sick he was.  They had told me outside that he had a bad case of pneumonia.  He was awake, perfectly conscious, and he stared at me with eyes that set my heart going.

    “Hello, Jim!” I said, and offered my hand, as I sat down on the bed. 
    He was too weak to shake hands.

“Who’re you?” he asked.  He couldn’t speak very well.  When I told him my name and that I was his sister’s fiance his face changed so he did not look like the same person.  It was beautiful.  Oh, it showed how homesick he was!  Then I talked a blue streak about you, about the girls, about “Many Waters”—­how I lost my wheat, and everything.  He was intensely interested, and when I got through he whispered that he guessed Lenore had picked a “winner.”  What do you think of that?  He was curious about