"You can't expect much better news than that from men in France," John Starkley said to his wife. "Wounded and doing fine—why, that's better than no news, by a long shot. He will be safe out of the line now for weeks, perhaps for months. Perhaps he will even get to England. He is safe at this very minute, anyway."
He excused himself, went upstairs and told Jim Hammond the news.
"That is twice for Peter already," he said, "once right at home and once in Flanders. If this one isn't any worse than the first, we have nothing to worry about."
"I hope it is just bad enough to give him a good long rest," said Jim in a low voice.
The postmaster stayed to dinner, and Emma smuggled roast beef and pudding up to Jim in his bedroom. No sooner had that visitor gone than another drove up. This other was Vivia Hammond; and once more Jim retired to his room. Vivia had heard of the cablegram, but nothing of its import. Her face was white with anxiety.
"What is it?" she cried. "The cable—what is it about?"
"Peter is right as rain—wounded but doing fine," said John.
Vivia cried and then laughed.
"I love Peter, and I don't care who knows it!" she exclaimed. "I hope he has lost a leg, so they'll have to send him home. That sounds dreadful—but I love him so—and what does a leg matter?" She turned to Mrs. Starkley. "Did he ever tell you he loved me?" she asked.
"He didn't have to tell us," answered Mrs. Starkley, smiling.