"And there has never been another?" she whispered a few minutes later as she sat close beside him and watched him sip hot broth from the thick cup. The grey eyes twinkled.
"Don't you know, sweetheart, that there has never been another? Why, you have known me all my life!" But the blue eyes were serious.
"I mean, since—since you went away?" For answer the man raised his arm and pointed toward the opposite wall.
"Hand me that mackinaw," he said. Ethel gasped and stared at him wide eyed. "The mackinaw—that old striped coat next to the slicker," he smiled.
"But——" she stifled the protest, and the man wondered at the sudden pallor of her face.
"Hand it here," he repeated, "there is something I want to show you."
Without a word the girl crossed the room and, removing the mackinaw from its peg, laid it upon the blanket within reach of his hand. He drew it to him, and the girl watched in silence while he ran his fingers over the lining.
He plunged his arm to the elbow into the ragged hole and explored to the very corners the space between the lining and the cloth. With a blank expression of disappointment he looked up at her.
"They are gone," he said in a low voice. "My letters and my picture. Your letters, dear—and your picture——"
"Letters!" the girl gasped, leaning forward and staring into his eyes.