Mother. God reward that woman! I wonder what she used.
Son. He says: "She is my French mother."
Mother. What-t! How many mothers has a man? But God reward her none the less! It must have been that old double-tooth at the back on the left lower side, for I remember——
Father. Let it wait. It is cured now. What else does he write?
Son. He writes, making excuses for not having written. He says: "I have been so occupied and sent from one place to another that on several occasions I have missed the post. I know you must have experienced anxiety. But do not be displeased. Let my mother remember that I can only write when I have opportunity, and the only remedy for helplessness is patience."
Father [groaning]. Ah! He has not yet been wounded, and he sets himself up for a physician.
Mother. He speaks wisely and beautifully. But what of his "French mother"—burn her!
Son. He says: "Moreover, this French mother of mine in France is displeased with me if I do not write to her about my welfare. My mother, like you, my French mother does all she can for my welfare. I cannot write sufficiently in praise of what she does for me. When I was in the village behind the trench if, on any day, by reason of duty, I did not return till evening, she, herself, would come in search of me and lead me back to the house.
Mother. Aha! She knew! I wish I could have caught him by the other ear!
Son. He says: "And when I was sent away on duty to another village, and so could not find time to write either to you or to her, she came close to the place where I was and where no one is permitted to come and asked to see her boy. She brought with her a great parcel of things for me to eat. What more am I to say for the concern she has for my welfare?"