Often the letters have come written in German, French or Italian, but in all the same story "watch over my boy, give me tidings of him." Once or twice the letters have been from those in high social position, and often the poorly written efforts of a very humble folk, but the message is always the same. Love and forgiveness, yearning through the shame and sorrow. Several times we have had the joy of sending the boy back to his far away home, and getting good news from him when he is again under the safest, strongest influences on earth. Perhaps the most pathetic letter from over seas came to me from a mother in Australia. I had had the duty of breaking to her the news of her son's imprisonment, and afterwards forwarding his letters to her each month and receiving hers for him. She was an earnest Christian and though quite old and feeble, wrote him very long and loving letters by every mail and prayed without ceasing that she might see his face once more before she died. At last a letter reached me that told me of a very dangerous seizure; the doctor had informed her that she had perhaps but a few hours to live and at most could not last many days. The writing was very shaky and in many places almost illegible, while gaps here and there told where the pencil had dropped from the fingers that were already growing cold in death. She had had to rest often to gain strength to finish it. Her letter is too sacred for reproduction. In it she poured out to me her anguish and heart's longing for her boy. She told me his weak points, and begged me to stand by him. She asked me to break the news of her death and to pass on her last message. The last few lines were literally written in the anguish of death, and she closed with the words "if you get no news by the next mail you can tell my boy his mother is gone." The next mail brought a letter but it was black edged and from another member of the family, telling me that she had died with his name on her lips.