My flow of thought was interrupted by a burst of song in which I was compelled to join. We're all writing letters around one candle; suddenly the O. C. looked up and began, "God Be with You Till We Meet Again." We sang it in parts. It was in Southport, when I was about nine years old, that I first heard that sung. You had gone for your first trip to America, leaving a very lonely family behind you. We children were scared to death that you'd be drowned. One evening, coming back from a walk on the sand-hills, we heard voices singing in a garden, "God Be with You Till We Meet Again." The words and the soft dusk, and the vague figures in the English summer garden, seemed to typify the terror of all partings. We've said good-bye so often since, and God has been with us. I don't think any parting was more hard than our last at the prosaic dock-gates with the cold wind of duty blowing, and the sentry barring your entrance, and your path leading back to America while mine led on to France. But you three were regular soldiers--just as much soldiers as we chaps who were embarking. One talks of our armies in the field, but there are the other armies, millions strong, of mothers and fathers and sisters, who keep their eyes dry, treasure muddy letters beneath their pillows, offer up prayers and wait, wait, wait so eternally for God to open another door. To-morrow I again go forward, which means rising early and taking a long plod through the snows; that's one reason for not writing any more, and another is that our one poor candle is literally on its last legs. Your poem, written years ago when the poor were marching in London, is often in my mind: "Yesterday and to-day Have been heavy with labor and sorrow; I should faint if I did not see The day that is after to-morrow." And there's that last verse which prophesied utterly the spirit in which we men at the Front are fighting to-day: "And for me, with spirit elate The mire and the fog I press through, For Heaven shines under the cloud Of the day that is after to-morrow." We civilians who have been taught so long to love our enemies and do good to them who hate us--much too long ever to make professional soldiers--are watching with our hearts in our eyes for that day which comes after to-morrow. Meanwhile we plod on determinedly, hoping for the hidden glory. Yours very lovingly, CON. VIII--MEN MARCHING TO "CALVARY" February 4th, 1917. DEAR MR. B.: