"Read them all!" She opened the letter reluctantly.

It was addressed in a dainty, female hand and the girl had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to pry into personal relations of a delicate character.
"Your sweetheart ?" she asked gently.
"Yes, indeed; my sweetheart and my wife." "Oh, I see.

And have you been married long ?" He seemed a mere boy.
"Five months, but for the last two I have not seen her." The letters were dated at Charleroi and each one began: "My darling husband." Patsy read the packet through, from first to last, her eyes filling with tears at times as she noted the rare devotion and passionate longing of the poor young wife and realized that the boyish husband was even now dying, a martyr to his country's cause.

The letters were signed "Elizabeth." In one was a small photograph of a sweet, dark-eyed girl whom she instantly knew to be the bereaved wife.
"And does she still live at Charleroi ?" Patsy asked.
"I hope so, mademoiselle; with her mother.

The Germans now occupy the town, but you will notice the last letter states that all citizens are treated courteously and with much consideration, so I do not fear for her." The reading of the letters, in conjunction with the opiate, seemed to comfort him, for presently he fell asleep.