for at times I seem to have no will at all. I believe
if you asked me to do the Chinese kotow, and bend to the earth before
you, I'd secretly be dying to do it. But I wouldn't, you know, I
promise you that. I give you credit for liking a live woman, with a will
of her own, better than a jelly-fish. And anyway I wouldn't--if you
liked me for it or not--so you see it's no use urging me. And still I
haven't done what you want--what was it now? Oh, to tell you that--but
the words frighten me, they are so big. That I--I--I--love you. Is it
that? I haven't said it yet, remember. I'm only asking a question. Do
you know I have an objection to sitting here in cold blood and writing
that down in cold ink? If it were only a little dark now, and your
shoulder--and I could hide my head--you can't get off for a minute? Ah,
I am scribbling along light-heartedly, when all the time the sword of
Damocles is hanging over us both, when my next letter may have to be
good-by for always. If that fate comes you will find me steady to stand
by you, to help you. I will say those three little words, so little and
so big, to you once again, and then I will live them by giving up what
is dearest to me--that's you, dear--that your 'conduct' may not be
'unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.' You must keep your word. If
the worst comes, will you always remember that as an American woman's
patriotism. There could be none truer. I could send you marching off to
Cuba--and how about that, is it war surely?--with a light heart, knowing
that you were giving yourself for a holy cause and going to honor and
fame, though perhaps, dear, to a soldier's death. And I would pray for
you and remember your splendid strength, and think always of seeing you
march home again, and then only your mother could be more proud than I.
That would be easy, in comparison. Write me about the war--but, of
course, you would not be sent.

"Now here is the very end of my letter, and I haven't yet said it--what
you wanted. But here it Is, bend your head, from away up there, and
listen. Now--do you hear--I love you. Good-by, good-by, I love you."

The papers rustled softly in the silent room, and the boy's mother, as
she put the letter back, kissed it, and it was as if ghostly lips
touched hers, for the boy had kissed those words, she knew.

The next was only a note, written just before his sailing to Cuba.

"A fair voyage and a short one, a good fight and a quick one," the note
sa