rown faster than the potatoes, the pen was mightier
than the needle and the mortgage had kept right on working while the
chickens had taken a vacation.

The mortgage had beaten poor old Mrs. Haskell at every turn. It had
bombarded her with notices and writs and summonses and things and she
had lost the fight. She had a sort of armistice with this mortgage, but
she knew there could be but one end to that armistice. The little war, a
very heroic little war, was as good as over. The little white house had
been made safe for the Liberty Realty Company.

For one brief, terrible moment, before the postmaster had departed, Mrs.
Haskell had feared that perhaps she had done something lawless in
connection with her little pension, signed her name in the wrong place
perhaps, and that W. Harris with all his high sounding names, was some
doughty governmental minion coming to apprehend her in true military
fashion. But if the paper contained in the envelope dispelled that fear,
at least it did not cheer her.

She returned into the house, her eyes brimming, the paper shaking in her
poor old hand. She groped her way to an old haircloth armchair in her
sitting room, and put on her spectacles. The moisture from her eyes
dimmed the glasses and she had to take them off and wipe them before
beginning to read.

She was quite alone in her little castle, or rather the Liberty Realty
Company's little castle. She wanted to be alone. It was very quiet.
Outside the birds could be heard twittering in the vine on the
ramshackle little porch. The kettle sang cheerily in the kitchen. There
was that musty indoor odor of the country homestead, the odor which
soldier boys remembered and longed for in trenches and dugouts. And
mingling with this was the fragrance of flowers coming in through the
open window. The dog with a collar strolled in, laid his head in the old
lady's lap, looked up into her eyes and listened. There were only those
two there, so she read the contents of the paper aloud.

_Dear Old Mother:_

I was hoping I might get down to Hicksville before we sail, but
guess I can't. They don't tell us much here but it seems to be
in the air that we'll sail in a day or two. Feeling pretty
disappointed because I wanted to see you again and say good-bye
and have just one good home-cooked meal. I'm sick of beans and
black coffee. Don't worry, you'll hear from me in France. I
don't suppose you'll be able to get th