Hattie Corbin and Helen Brooks sat by the fire in the living room. But yesterday the news had come of the sinking of the Housatonic and of the submarine torpedo with terrible loss of life on one and total loss on the other. After the first heartrendings of grief, Helen had sunk into stolid indifference to everything and everybody. The last scene between them, and her note with the hastily scribbled “It is too late,” on the back, crushed her anew at each remembrance. Only one thing had anyone dared to say to her. It was Hattie who had spoken.
“Now, Helen, dear, you know how much we love the Great Cause, who give our all.”
So each day only found her face more deeply lined with pain, and her sympathy with the poor, wounded fellows at the hospital more tender.
One day she was in the hospital and passed by the bed of a poor patient who had just been brought in from Morris’ Island. His face was thin and haggard, and the flesh had all gone away from his bones. His right arm was shattered and one eye had been attacked by cancer. The poor fellow called weakly:
“Miss, a favor, please ma’am.”
“Certainly, sir. What may I do for you?”
“Could you write a letter for me, Miss?”
“Indeed I shall. Wait until I get the paper and ink.”
A few minutes later he was telling her what to write.
“It’s to Miss Annie Little—I mean Mrs. Tait Preston, at Dunvegan, North Carolina,” and at the mention of his loved one’s name, the sick man groaned.