By day she thought of him, at night he filled her dreams.

She had learned to pray by praying for Kalman.
"Aren't you going to open your letter ?" said her friend, rejoicing in her joy.
"Yes," cried the girl, and ran into the little room which she shared with Paulina and her child.
Once in that retreat, she threw herself on her knees by the bed, put the letter before her, and pressed her lips hard upon it, her tears wetting it as she prayed in sheer joy.

It was just sixteen months, one week, three days, and nine hours since she had watched, through a mist of tears, the train carrying him away to join the Macmillan outfit at Portage la Prairie.

Through Jack French's letters to his sister she had been kept in close touch with her brother, but this was his first letter to herself.
How she laughed and wept at the rude construction and the quaint spelling, for the letter was written in her native tongue.
"My sister, my Irma, my beloved," the letter ran.

Irma kissed the words as she read them.