"That boy recovered," I said. "What's happened to him and his mother, since?"
"The ironical young brute! I've just had this from him." And he handed me a letter with the Hanover post mark.
"Dear Mr. Harburn,
It was only on meeting my mother here yesterday that I learned of her visit to you one evening last December. I wish to apologise for it, since it was my illness which caused her to so forget herself. I owe you a deep debt of gratitude for having been at least part means of giving me the most wonderful experience of my life. In that camp of sorrow—where there was sickness of mind and body such as I am sure you have never seen or realised, such endless hopeless mental anguish of poor huddled creatures turning and turning on themselves year after year—I learned to forget myself, and to do my little best for them. And I learned, and I hope I shall never forget it, that feeling for one's fellow creatures is all that stands between man and death; I was going fast the other way before I was sent there. I thank you from my heart, and beg to remain,
Very faithfully yours
Harold Holsteig."
I put it down, and said:
"That's not ironical. He means it."
"Bosh!" said Harburn, with the old spark and smoulder in his eyes. "He's pulling my leg—the swinelet Hun!"
"He is not, Harburn; I assure you."
Harburn got up. "He is; I tell you he is. Ah! Those brutes! Well! I haven't done with them yet."