mmunicated in letters. We were all
thrilled by the darkened heroic London through which we moved, the
London which bore its sorrows so proudly, and went about its daily life
with such silent courage. We visited old friends to whom the war had
brought irreparable bereavements, but never once heard the voice of
self-pity, of murmur or complaint. To me it was an incredible England;
an England purged of all weakness, stripped of flabbiness, regenerated
by sacrifice. I had dreamed of no such transformation by anything I had
read in American newspapers and magazines. I think no one can imagine
the completeness of this rebirth of the soul of England who has not
dwelt, if only for a few days, among its people.

Coningsby's brief leave expired all too soon. We saw him off from
Folkestone, and while we were saying good-bye to him, his two brothers
were on their way to their distant appointments with the Royal Naval
Motor Patrol in the North of Scotland. We left Liverpool for New York on
January 27th, and while at sea heard of the diplomatic break between
America and Germany. The news was received on board the _S.S. St. Paul_
with rejoicing. It was Sunday, and the religious service on board
concluded with the Star-Spangled Banner.

XXXVI

December 28th, 1916.

Dearest All:

I'm writing you this letter because I expect to-night is a busy-packing
one with you. The picture is in my mind of you all. How splendid it is
of you to come! I never thought you would really, not even in my wildest
dream of optimism. There have been so many times when I scarcely thought
that I would ever see you again--now the unexpected and hoped-for
happens. It's ripping!

I've put in an application for special leave in case the ordinary leave
should be cut off. I think I'm almost certain to arrive by the 11th.
Won't we have a time? I wonder what we'll want to do most--sit quiet or
go to theatres? The nine days of freedom--the wonderful nine days--will
pass with most tragic quickness. But they'll be days to remember as long
as life lasts.

Shall I see you standing on the station when I puff into London--or will
it be Folkestone where we meet--or shall I arrive before you? I somehow
think it will be you who will meet me at the barrier at Charing Cross,
and we'll taxi through the darkened streets down the Strand, and back to
our privacy. How impossible it sounds--like a vision of heart's desire
in the night.

Far, far away I see the fine home-