"Don't you know, dearie?" The child shook her head. "L," prompted the mother. Muriel ventured, dubiously: "L-a-?" Her mother shook her head. The child ventured again: "L-i-?" "No, honey." The child kicked her brown little legs. "Tell me, mother dear," she besought. "Please tell me." "L-o-v-e," spelled the mother. "Oh, yes! I 'member now.... Mother, dear?" "Yes, little sweetheart?" "When is a daddy coming home? It's awfully hard to write letters. He's been gone a long time now, hasn't he, mother dear?" "Yes, dearie.... A long, long time." The violet eyes were sad. "'Most a year?" persisted the little one. Her mother smiled a little, wanly. "It seems like it, doesn't it?" she said. "But it's only two months--not only two months," she corrected; "but two months." Came a little pause. It was broken again by Muriel. "Mother, dear." "Yes?" "Can't I make the rest just kisses?" With a smile--a smile of infinite love and tenderness, the mother leaned across and kissed the child that was hers. "Of course you may, dearie," she assented, softly. "Why don't you write kisses, too, mother, dear?" queried the little one. "It's lots easier.... Oh, mother, dear! I'll tell you what I wrote if you'll tell me what you wrote. Will you?" Violet eyes gave loving assent. "Oh, goody! We won't tell anyone else, will we?" "No, dearie." "Then," declared Muriel, "I'll read mine." She picked up the wrinkled little sheet of sadly irregular chirography. "Dear father daddy," she read. "It rained yesterday. Mother and I are well. We hope you are well and God gave our new cat four kittens." She looked up into the face of her mother. "God is awfully good to cats, isn't He, mother dear?" she asked. She went on, then, with the assurance of childhood: "Please come home. We miss you. I fell in the lake yesterday, but didn't take cold. I love you.... And the rest is just kisses." She eyed her mother anxiously. "Do you think daddy will like that letter?" she asked. Her mother's voice was a bit uneven as she answered. "I'm sure he will, little sweetheart I'm _sure_ he will." "Now," requested the child, "you read yours." Kathryn, drawing the child to her, bent forward. There was much in her heart--much that she might not tell to anyone of all the world save two-- and one of these was far away; and, even though the other could not understand, still-- She read: "My John: You know how we love you, but you don't know how we miss you. Please, please come back to us. If it weren't for Muriel I don't know what I'd do, John, dear. I don't want to make you unhappy. I want you to have all the honors--all the prominence--everything that a man's heart holds dear. But I can't help being jealous a little of the things that are keeping you from us...." She ceased, turning her head away. A robin, in the roses, lifting its head, broke into song. The child waited, patiently.... At length she inquired: "Is that all, mother dear?" Kathryn nodded. "Yes, honey."