letters of condolence and bad news
are always difficult to write, so that there was silence in our dug-out
for the next two hours.

The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. His
other belongings were scanty--a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, and
two letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought to
write; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was from
a girl with whom he had been "walking out," apparently his only friend
in the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written at
the end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter was
ill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given to
most men.

"Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake," she wrote. "I am so
proud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches.... Dear Erny, you
can't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quick
and come back to me what loves you so...."

So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but my
laugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back--perhaps I
was a little overwrought by the recent shelling.

I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe in
full:

"DEAREST LIZ,

"I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear
Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret--i am going to
be rekermended for the V.C. becos i done so well in the trenches. i
don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be
made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so ..."

* * * * *

And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee and
wondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girl
to tell her the truth--that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should I
tear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes I
hesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope and
added a note to tell her.

"He died like a soldier," I finished. "His letter will tell you better
than any words of mine how utterly without fear he was."

And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie I
told to her.

XI

THE CITY OF TRAGEDY

What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins,
that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do we
care if great shells have torn gaping hole