all right, so do not fail to tell me all, and keep me in touch. If _I_
do not write much it is because letters do not get through always, and
are read. But you know I love you, and you know twice each day I pray
for you and wish for you all the time. I feel as though I had been
gone a month. Gerald Morgan and I got in last night; this is a
splendid new hotel; for $2.50 I get a room and bath like yours on the
"royal suite," only bigger. This morning the minister did everything
he could for us. There are about twenty Americans who want
credentials. They say they will take no Americans, but to our minister
they said they would make exception in favor of three, so I guess the
three will be John McCutcheon, Palmer and myself. John and I, if
anyone gets a pass, are sure. With the passes we had, Gerald and I
started out in a yellow motor, covered with flags of the Allies, and
saw a great deal. How I wished you were with me, you would so have
loved it. The country is absolutely beautiful. We were stopped every
quarter mile to show our passes and we got a working idea of how it
will be. Tonight I dined with Mr. Whitlock, the minister, and John
McCutcheon came in and Irving Cobb. John and I will get together and
go out. All you need is a motor car and you can go pretty much
everywhere, EXCEPT near where there is fighting. So what I am to do to
earn my wages I don't know. I am now going to bed and I send my
darlin' all love. Today I sent you a wire. If it got to you let me
know. Take such good care of yourself. Remember me to Louise, and,
WRITE ME. All love, DEAR, DEAR one. My wife and my sweetheart.

Your husband,

RICHARD.

The following is the last letter that got through.

BRUSSELS, August 21, 1914.

DEAREST ONE:

I cannot say much, as I doubt if this will be opened by you. The
German army came in and there was no fighting and I am very well. I am
only distressed at not being able to get letters from you, and not
being able to send them. I will write a long one, and hold it until I
am sure of some way by which it can reach you.

YOU KNOW WHAT I WOULD SAY.

Mrs. Davis had waited in London to meet Richard on his return from the
war, but a misunderstanding as to the date of his return, coupled with
her strong sense of duty to his interests at home, gave occasion for
the letter which follows:

LONDON, August 31, 1914.

DEAREST ONE:

Not since the Herald Square days have I had s