to become familiar. But it was evidently the official word. Not for the
first time she reminded herself of the exact words the Prime Minister in
the House of Commons had used. They had been "Our casualties are very
heavy, though the exact numbers are not yet known." Mrs. Otway wondered
uneasily when they would become known--how soon, that is, a mother, a
sister, a lover, and yes, a friend, would learn that the man who was
beloved, cherished, or close and dear as a friend may be, had
become--what was the horrible word?--a casualty.

She walked through into her peaceful, pretty house. Unless the household
were all out, the front door was never locked, for there was nothing to
steal, and no secrets to pry out, in the Trellis House. And then, on
the hall table, she saw the belated evening paper which she had missed
this morning, and two or three letters. Taking up the paper and the
letters, she went straight through into the garden. It would be
pleasanter to read out there than indoors.

With a restful feeling that no one was likely to come in and disturb her
yet awhile, she sat down in the basket-chair which had already been put
out by her thoughtful old Anna. And then, quite suddenly, she caught
sight of the middle letter of the three she had gathered up in such
careless haste. It was an odd-looking envelope, of thin, common paper
covered with pale blue lines; but it bore her address written in Major
Guthrie's clear, small, familiar handwriting, and on the right-hand
corner was the usual familiar penny stamp. That stamp was, of course, a
positive proof that he was home again.

For quite a minute she simply held the envelope in her hand. She felt so
relieved, and yes, so ridiculously happy, that after the first moment of
heartfelt joy there came a pang of compunction. It was wrong, it was
unnatural, that the safety of _one_ human being should so affect her.
She was glad that this curious revulsion of feeling, this passing from
gloom and despondency to unreasoning peace and joy, should have taken
place when she was by herself. She would have been ashamed that Rose
should have witnessed it.

And then, with a certain deliberation, she opened the envelope, and drew
out the oddly-shaped piece of paper it contained.

This is what she read:

"FRANCE,

"_Wednesday morning._

"Every letter sent by the usual channel is read and, very
properly, censored. I do not choose that this letter should be
se