"Not her," he interrupted proudly. "She's a rare good nurse herself, and it would take more than that to turn her up."
I shook my pen; he shifted his head a little and continued:—
"DEAR WIFE,—If you could see my shoulder dressed of a morning you would laugh. They cuts out little pieces of lint like a picture puzzle to fit the places, and I've got a regular map of Blighty all down my arm; but that's not so bad as my back, which I cannot see and which the wound is as long—"
I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed the space left for further cheerful communications.
"Shall I leave this for you to finish?" I suggested, thinking of tender messages difficult to dictate. "Your fingers may be better after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning."
"That's all right, Miss. There's nothing more to put except my name, if you'll just say, "Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this finds you well as it leaves me at present."
Fair Warning.
"A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On Friday, 2nd November."—Scotch Paper.