"They told Dear Father that he must not write and he is a good soldier, but he is going to risk a court-martial and write. Now, run along and spend your money and have a good time and remember when even you are having a good time that it is at nobody's expense."
"What is expense?" asked George.
"You can have it at your own expense."
"What are you going to do to be court-martialed about!" asked the boy, returning to the risk that his father was to take.
"Well, I am going to have pencil and paper if I can get them. I would rather have pen and ink if I could."
"I will get paper and ink and pen for you," replied George.
He went out and returned with paper, a bottle of ink, a pen and a sponge. He said he tried to get some shot because he had seen it down-stairs to wipe pens on, but he did not see how it could wipe pens, for he took one and tried to wipe a pen and couldn't do it.
"Now, this is a love-letter and I don't want you to read it because you would be jealous. It is to an old sweetheart," said my Soldier, and the old twinkle came into his eyes.
On that last day he wrote a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Haxtun, dear friends at whose home I had visited in happy days. Mr. Haxtun was both Vice-President and Secretary of the Life Insurance Company which my Soldier represented.
"Sister," he said to the nurse, "I want this letter mailed at once."