Captain Lote grasped the significance of the uncompleted sentence.
“I see, Al,” he answered, “I see. Well, boy, I—I—Good luck.”
“Good luck, Grandfather.”
That was all, that and one more handclasp. Our Anglo-Saxon inheritance descends upon us in times like these. The captain was silent for most of the ride to the railroad station.
Then followed a long, significant interval during which there were no letters from the young soldier. After this a short reassuring cablegram from “Somewhere in France.” “Safe. Well,” it read and Olive Snow carried it about with her, in the bosom of her gown, all that afternoon and put it upon retiring on her bureau top so that she might see it the first thing in the morning.
Another long interval, then letters, the reassuring but so tantalizingly unsatisfactory letters we American families were, just at that time, beginning to receive. Reading the newspapers now had a personal interest, a terrifying, dreadful interest. Then the packing and sending of holiday boxes, over the contents of which Olive and Rachel spent much careful planning and anxious preparation. Then another interval of more letters, letters which hinted vaguely at big things just ahead.
Then no letter for more than a month.
And then, one noon, as Captain Zelotes returned to his desk after the walk from home and dinner, Laban Keeler came in and stood beside that desk.
The captain, looking up, saw the little bookkeeper's face. “What is it, Labe?” he asked, sharply.
Laban held a yellow envelope in his hand.