“Look here!” she cried, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the two words “marginally noted”—­“What does that mean?”

I read it over again:—­

“We regret to inform you that the soldier marginally noted, who has been declared missing since September 29, is now believed to have been killed!”

“There!” she cried, “can’t you see?” pointing again to the two words.  “Don’t you see what that means?—­margin means the edge—­and that means that Fred was noted for being always on the edge of the army, trying to escape, I suppose.  But that’s a lie, for Fred was not that kind, I tell you—­he was no coward!”

I saw where the trouble lay, and tried to explain.  She would not listen.

“Oh, but I looked in the dictionary and I know:  ‘margin’ means ’the edge,’ and they are trying to say that Fred was always edging off—­you see—­noted for being on the edge, that’s what they say.”

We reasoned, we argued, we explained, but the poor little lonely soul was obsessed with the idea that a deep insult had been put upon her man’s memory.

Then my old friend had an idea.  She opened her purse and brought out the notice which she had received of the death of her last boy.

We put the two notices side by side, and told her that these were printed by the thousands, and every one got the same.  Just the name had to be filled in.

Then she saw it!

“Oh!” she cried, “I am so glad you showed me this, for I have been so bitter.  I hated every one; it sounded so hard and cold and horrible—­as if nobody cared.  It was harder than losing Fred to have him so insulted.  But now I see it all!”

“Isn’t it too bad,” said the old lady, as we walked home together, “that they do not have these things managed by women?  Women would have sense enough to remember that these notices go to many classes of people—­and would go a bit slow on the high-sounding phrases:  they would say, ’The soldier whose name appears on the margin of this letter,’ instead of ‘The soldier who is marginally noted’; it might not be so concise, but it is a heap plainer.  A few sentences of sympathy, too, and appreciation, written in by hand, would be a comfort.  I tell you at a time like this we want something human, like the little girl who was put to bed in the dark and told that the angels would keep her company.  She said she didn’t want angels—­she wanted something with a skin face!—­So do we all!  We are panicky and touchy, like a child that has been up too late the night before, and we have to be carefully handled.  All the pores of our hearts are open and it is easy to get a chill!”

As we rode home in the car she told me about the letter which had come that day from her last boy:—­