But even these were not all the letters that spring. There were the letters of John McGuire from far-away France—really wonderful letters—letters that brought to the little New England town the very breath of the battle-field itself, the smell of its smoke, the shrieks of its shells. And with Mr. Burton, with Susan, with the whole neighborhood indeed, Mrs. McGuire shared them. They were even printed occasionally in the town's weekly newspaper. And they were talked of everywhere, day in and day out. No wonder, then, that, to Susan, the spring seemed but a "serious of letters."
It was in May that the great Paris doctor was expected; but late in April came a letter from Dr. Stewart saying that, owing to war conditions, the doctor had been delayed. He would not reach this country now until July—which meant two more months of weary waiting for Keith and for Keith's friends at home.
It was just here that Susan's patience snapped.
"When you get yourself screwed up to stand jest so much, an' then they come along with jest a little more, somethin's got to break, I tell you. Well, I've broke."
Whether as a result of the "break" or not, Susan did not say, neither did she mention whether it was to assuage her own grief or to alleviate Keith's; but whatever it was, Susan wrote these verses and sent them to Keith:
BY THE DAY
When our back is nigh to breakin',
An' our strength is nearly gone,
An' along there comes the layin'
Of another burden on—
If we'll only jest remember,
No matter what's to pay,
That 'tisn't yet December,
An' we're livin' by the day.
'Most any one can stand it—
What jest TO-DAY has brought.
It's when we try to lump it,
An' take it by the lot!
Why, any back would double,
An' any legs'll bend,
If we pile on all the trouble
Meant to last us till the end!