Meadows was approaching Hamilton’s wheelchair with a cup of steaming chocolate, and for a moment Hamilton had an acute longing to be back in the States, nearer Margaret.
“What’s the matter, Colonel, hasn’t she written?” the nurse smiled down upon him. “I’m quite sure I saw a letter for you in the office. Orderly’ll be up in a few minutes. Drink this chocolate. I made it myself.”
Hamilton took the cup and admitted that he was woefully homesick.
“Some day,” he gulped and blinked hard. “Jimminy, this stuff is hot!—some day I’d like to have you meet some one in Georgia—Corinth. A girl I know—my—some one I know real well. She looks a great deal like you, too. Same complexion and same way of smiling. Might be sisters.”
“No,” laughed Miss Meadows, shaking her head, “I haven’t a relative south of South Bend, Indiana. It’s just a stage of convalescence. When they reach it, all my boys,” she gave an expressive wave of her white arm, “tell me I remind them of some one. So you’d better look out or you’ll be mistaking me for her and telling me things meant only for her shell-like ears. Oh, such things have happened before!”
Meadows shook her forefinger saucily at the colonel and whisked away. Hamilton swallowed a burning gulp of chocolate and felt more homesick than ever.
Meadows was right. There was a letter for Hamilton—a letter which sent his heart thumping. It came in a square envelope, lined with colored tissue, addressed in large, round characters, in green ink and smelling faintly of musk. A dozen postmarks and forwarding addresses showed the course it had travelled. Hamilton had written Margaret that he would spend his leave in Paris, the last week in September, and she had addressed the letter in care of the American Club. When Hamilton failed to claim the missive, it had evidently been sent to headquarters. From there it had been forwarded to his regiment. The letter had followed the regiment from post to post, had finally caught up with it and been sent on to the field hospital. From there it had been sent to the American hospital on Rue de St. Jacques, Paris. Evidently Margaret was unaware that Hamilton had been wounded and had lain hovering between life and death for two months. Hamilton tore open the letter.
“Dearest Bobby boy,” it ran. “I know that some horrid censor will be snooping through this, so I can’t tell you how much I love you!
“I suppose you are in Paris now, enjoying your leave. Oh, how jealous I am of those notorious French beauties! I hear that they bob their hair, wear skirts up to their knees and smoke cigarettes. How shocking! But you’ll always be true to your little Margaret, won’t you?
“You don’t know how much we at home suffer! I don’t mean by going without wheat or meat or heat on certain days or without lights at night; nor even our untiring work on drives and committees and meetings. I mean the gap you have made in our lives that nothing can fill!