She was quite alone in her little castle, or rather the Liberty Realty Company’s little castle. She wanted to be alone. It was very quiet. Outside the birds could be heard twittering in the vine on the ramshackle little porch. The kettle sang cheerily in the kitchen. There was that musty indoor odor of the country homestead, the odor which soldier boys remembered and longed for in trenches and dugouts. And mingling with this was the fragrance of flowers coming in through the open window. The dog with a collar strolled in, laid his head in the old lady’s lap, looked up into her eyes and listened. There were only those two there, so she read the contents of the paper aloud.
Dear Old Mother:
I was hoping I might get down to Hicksville before we sail, but guess I can’t. They don’t tell us much here but it seems to be in the air that we’ll sail in a day or two. Feeling pretty disappointed because I wanted to see you again and say good-bye and have just one good home-cooked meal. I’m sick of beans and black coffee. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me in France. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to get the end of the porch fixed up, but try to get the window put in before winter. I meant to do that myself. Put a pail under the drain so the water won’t flood under the woodshed. Tell Don to be a good watch dog and be sure to tie him outside at night.
I don’t suppose you’ll hear from me again till we get across. Don’t worry, pretty soon it will all be over and I’ll come marching home and you’ll be telling people it was me that won the war and I’ll be glad to get a good squint at my old N. C. hills. It will be over before you know it. Now you have to be brave, see? Just like you were when dad died. Remember what you said then? Now don’t think this is good-bye just because I’m sailing but remember the Atlantic Ocean isn’t a one way street. Just chalk that up on the wall, and speaking about oceans don’t forget about the water by the woodshed and do what I told you. So now good-bye dear old Mum and don’t worry, and I won’t go near Paris like you said. Hicksville is good enough for me.
Your loving son.
Old Mrs. Haskell read this letter twice. She had to clean her glasses several times while doing so. Whatever of comfort the letter gave her was expressed in tears. She arose, a straight, wizened little figure. She went over to an old-fashioned whatnot which stood in the corner, opened a plush album which lay there and turned the pages till she came to a certain photograph. This she gazed at for fully five minutes, the dog standing patiently at her side. Then she took a postal card which had been laid between the two stiff cardboard leaves. This also she gazed at though it contained but few words. It bore a date of more than two years before. The printing, with its blank spaces filled, stated that the War Department regretted to inform her that her son Joseph Haskell had been killed in action on some date or other in the “operations” west of some place or other.
She stooped down and patted the dog and he held up his head against the almost threadbare material of her poor gown.
“He did write after–all–he did–Don,” she sobbed. “He did–he wrote before he went–away. I don’t know who–W. Harris–I don’t understand it–but he did write. See?” The dog seemed to understand.
Mrs. Haskell dried her eyes with her kitchen apron, folded the letter, laid it with the post card, took a final pensive look at the photograph and clasped the heavy plush covers over all three. Then she sat down by the window and patted the dog with one thin hand while with the other she lifted the kitchen apron again to those poor old eyes. Thus they sat silently.
It was just an echo, a faint, belated echo of the great war....