"I don't want your money," he said roughly.
"I did it for him--because he asked me to. I'd
have done more than that for him. He'd been
good to me--God help me!"
The little catch in his voice made her look up.
He was slowly rubbing a grimy sleeve across his
eyes.
"We had to shoot," he went on under his
breath; "my mates and I. A man must obey
orders. We bungled it, and had to fire again--
and he laughed at us--he called us the awkward
squad--and he'd been good to me----"
There was silence in the room. A moment
later he straightened himself up, made a clumsy
military salute, and went away.
She stood still for a little while with the paper
in her hand; then sat down by the open window
to read. The letter was closely written in pencil,
and in some parts hardly legible. But the first
two words stood out quite clear upon the page;
and they were in English:
"Dear Jim."
The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty.
And she had lost him again--had lost him again!
At the sight of the familiar childish nickname all
the hopelessness of her bereavement came over
her afresh, and she put out her hands in blind
desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods
that lay above him were pressing on her heart.
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