If they were to keep their secret she could not send such letters because there were so many chances that they would be lost.

Still there was a hopeless comfort in writing them, in pouring out what she would not have written even if she had been sure that it would reach him safely.

No girl who loved a man who was at the Front would let him know that it seemed as if her heart were slowly breaking.

She must be brave--brave! But she was not brave, that she knew.

The news from the Front was worse every day; there were more women with awful faces; some workers had dropped out and came no more.