Nelly held out the telegram, which said—
'All safe. Posted letter last night. Love.'
'It can't take more than forty-eight hours to come—can it?' Then she lifted her eyes again to the distant farm, with its white front and its dark patch of yews.
'I keep thinking of their telegram—' she said, slowly—'and then of mine. Oh, this war is too horrible!' She threw up her hands with a sudden wild gesture, and then let one of them drop into Hester Martin's grasp. 'In George's last letter he told me he had to go with a message across a bit of ground that was being shelled. He went with a telephonist. He crossed first. The other man was to wait and follow him after an interval. George got across, then the man with the telephone wire started, and was shot—just as he reached George. He fell into George's arms—and died. And it might have been George—it might have been George just as well! It might be George any day!'
Miss Martin looked at her in perplexity. She had no ready-made consolations—she never had. Perhaps it was that which made her kind wrinkled face such a welcome sight to those in trouble. But at last she said—'It is all we women can do—to be patient—and hope—not to let our courage go down.'
Nelly shook her head.
'I am always saying that to myself—but! when the news comes—if it comes—what good will that be to me! Oh, I haven't been idle—indeed I haven't,' she added piteously—'I've worked myself tired every day—just not to think!'
'I know you have,' Miss Martin pressed the hand in hers. 'Well, now, he'll be all safe for a fortnight———'
'Perhaps three weeks,' Nelly corrected her, eagerly. Then she looked round at her new friend, a shy smile lighting up her face, and bringing back its bloom.
'You know he writes to me nearly every day?'