h other men. I can be _me_ now, and not
a soldier of thousands when I write. You shall hear from me again soon.
Hope you're having a ripping time in London.

Yours ever,
CON.

XXX

December 5th, 1916.

DEAREST M.:

I've just come in from my last tour of inspection as orderly officer,
and it's close on midnight. I'm getting this line off to you to let you
know that I expect to get my nine days' leave about the beginning of
January. How I wish it were possible to have you in London when I
arrive, or, failing that, to spend my leave in New York!

To-morrow I make an early start on horseback for a market of the
old-fashioned sort which is held at a town near by. Can you dimly
picture me with my groom, followed by a mess-cart, going from stall to
stall and bartering with the peasants? It'll be rather good fun and
something quite out of my experience.

Christmas will be over by the time you get this, and I do hope that you
had a good one. I paused to talk to the other officers; they say that
they are sure that you are very beautiful and have a warm heart, and
would like to send them a five-storey layer cake, half a dozen bottles
of port and one Paris chef. At present I am the Dives of the mess and
dole out luxuries to these Lazaruses.

Good-bye for the present.

Yours ever lovingly,
CON.

XXXI

December 6th, 1916.

Dearest M.:

I've just undone your Christmas parcels, and already I am wearing the
waistcoat and socks, and my mouth is hot with the ginger.

I expect to get leave for England on January 10th. I do wish it might be
possible for some of you to cross the ocean and be in London with
me--and I don't see what there is to prevent you. Unless the war ends
sooner than any of us expect, it is not likely that I shall get another
leave in less than nine months. So, if you want to come and if there's
time when you receive this letter, just hop on a boat and let's see what
London looks like together.

I wonder what kind of a Christmas you'll have. I shall picture it all.
You may hear me tiptoeing up the stairs if you listen very hard. Where
does the soul go in sleep? Surely mine flies back to where all of you
dear people are.

I came back to my farm yesterday to find a bouquet of paper flowers at
the head of my bed with a note pinned on it. Over my fire-place was h