e end of the porch fixed
up, but try to get the window put in before winter. I meant to
do that myself. Put a pail under the drain so the water won't
flood under the woodshed. Tell Don to be a good watch dog and be
sure to tie him outside at night.

I don't suppose you'll hear from me again till we get across.
Don't worry, pretty soon it will all be over and I'll come
marching home and you'll be telling people it was me that won
the war and I'll be glad to get a good squint at my old N. C.
hills. It will be over before you know it. Now you have to be
brave, see? Just like you were when dad died. Remember what you
said then? Now don't think this is good-bye just because I'm
sailing but remember the Atlantic Ocean isn't a one way street.
Just chalk that up on the wall, and speaking about oceans don't
forget about the water by the woodshed and do what I told you.
So now good-bye dear old Mum and don't worry, and I won't go
near Paris like you said. Hicksville is good enough for me.

Your loving son.

Old Mrs. Haskell read this letter twice. She had to clean her glasses
several times while doing so. Whatever of comfort the letter gave her
was expressed in tears. She arose, a straight, wizened little figure.
She went over to an old-fashioned whatnot which stood in the corner,
opened a plush album which lay there and turned the pages till she came
to a certain photograph. This she gazed at for fully five minutes, the
dog standing patiently at her side. Then she took a postal card which
had been laid between the two stiff cardboard leaves. This also she
gazed at though it contained but few words. It bore a date of more than
two years before. The printing, with its blank spaces filled, stated
that the War Department regretted to inform her that her son Joseph
Haskell had been killed in action on some date or other in the
"operations" west of some place or other.

She stooped down and patted the dog and he held up his head against the
almost threadbare material of her poor gown.

"He did write after--all--he did--Don," she sobbed. "He did--he wrote
before he went--away. I don't know who--W. Harris--I don't understand
it--but he _did_ write. See?" The dog seemed to understand.

Mrs. Haskell dried her eyes with her kitchen apron, folded the letter,
laid it with the post card, took a final pensive look at the photograph
an