January 1, 1918.—I came up to my room tonight, thinking I'd start the New Year by bringing this record up to date; but when I look back on the long five months to be filled in, the task seems hopeless. It was Thanksgiving before Mr. Sammy was able to come back to work. Since then I've had shorter hours at the office, because they don't have so much work for a stenographer in the winter, but the extra time outside has been taken up by one breathless chase after another. When it isn't selling Liberty Bonds it is distributing leaflets about food conservation and the crime of wasting. Or it's a drive for a million more Red Cross members or a hurry call for surgical dressings. Then every minute in between it's knit, knit, knit everlastingly.

Barby did not come home Christmas, and we did not keep the day for ourselves. We had our hands full doing for the families of the fishermen who were drowned last summer, and for the boys at the front and in the camps at home. I hope Richard got his box all right, and that Doctor John Wynne enjoyed the one Tippy packed for him, and the round-robin letter that Miss Susan and some of the Wellfleet people sent him. They started on their way before Thanksgiving.

I saw "Cousin James" a few minutes to-day. He came down to take a look at his premises. The bungalow has been boarded up ever since last fall, when he joined the class of "a dollar a year" men, working for the government. We had such a good time talking about Richard. He's so optimistic about the war ending soon, that he left me feeling more light-hearted than I've been for months. It will, indeed, be a happy New Year if it brings us peace.

Washington's Birthday. Shades of Valley Forge! What a winter this is! It will go down in history with its wheatless and meatless days, and now that the fuel shortage is pinching all classes of people alike, the ant as well as the grasshopper, the heatless days make the situation almost hopeless.

Tippy and I are living mostly in the kitchen now, because we are nearly at the end of our coal supply, and the railroads are not able to bring in any more. The open wood fires make little impression on the general iciness of the house. I am sitting up in my room to-night with furs and arctics on, and a big lamp burning to supplement the efforts of a little coal-oil heater. With all that it's so cold that I can see my breath. My fingers are so numb that I can scarcely manage my pen, but I must make a note of the news which came to-day. It's about Doctor Wynne.

In January Tippy had a letter from him, a charmingly written account of Christmas in the trenches, and a grateful acknowledgment of the box and the letter. This morning a small package came to me, addressed in a strange hand. An English nurse sent it. Inside she wrote:

"Captain John Wynne asked me to send you the enclosed. He was in this hospital three weeks, and died last night from the effect of injuries received in doing one of the bravest things the war has yet called forth. He faced what seemed to be instant and inevitable death to avert an explosion that would have killed his Major and many men with him. In the attempt he was so badly wounded that it was thought he could not live to reach the hospital. But maimed and shattered as he was, he lived until last night.

"He was one of the most efficient surgeons we had at the front, and one of the best beloved. His fortitude through his time of intense suffering was a marvel to the whole hospital staff, accustomed as we are to nurse brave men. It really seemed as if he were sustained by some power other than mere human endurance, some strength of the spirit few mortals attain.

"It was a source of regret to all who knew of his case that the decoration awarded him did not arrive until after he lapsed into unconsciousness. But he knew he was to receive it. His Colonel told him he was to have the highest award for valor that your country bestows. He had already told me what disposition to make of his effects, and when I asked him in regard to the expected decoration he gave me your address whispering, 'She will know.'"

I did know. It is hanging now where he knew I would put it. This afternoon when I came home I brought with me a little gold star to take the place of the blue one on the service flag under his mother's picture. And over it I hung the medal—that other star, bronze and laurel-wreathed, with its one word "Valor," surmounted by its eagle and its bit of ribbon.

Tippy, watching me, suddenly buried her face in her apron and went out of the room, crying as I have never seen her cry before. I knew it wasn't the thought that he was gone which hurt her so keenly. It was the fact that the little token of his country's appreciation reached him too late. He missed the comfort of it himself, and there was no one of his own left to know the honor done him and to take pride in it.

I had been feeling the hurt of it myself, ever since the news came. But it left me as I stood there, looking at the pictures in the little antique frame. The winter sunset, streaming red across the icicles outside the western window, touched everything in the room with a tinge of rose. It lighted up both faces, and, as I looked at his, I whispered through tears:

"What does a little guerdon matter to a soul like yours, John Wynne? The deed was all you cared for." And when I looked into his mother's face and recalled what the nurse had written, I dried my eyes and smiled into her eyes, that were looking so steadfastly out at me. I knew she had helped him at the last. In some way her comfort had been with him, as the hosts "were round about Elisha in the mountain."

St. Patrick's Day. March came in like a lion, but we're comfortable now, thank goodness, in spite of the fact that the winds are still keen and there is much ice in the harbor. The coal cars reached town at last, and the big base-burner in the hall sends waves of delicious warmth all through the house. This past winter has been a nightmare of discomfort for nearly everybody.

Babe says her experiences since 1918 set in would make the angels weep. She's been doing the housekeeping since New Year, because her mother simply cannot adjust herself to war conditions. Mrs. Dorsey announced that she was born extravagant and it wasn't her nature to save, but if Babe thought it was her duty and was willing to undertake it, she'd put up with the results no matter how harrowing. They get along pretty well when Mr. Dorsey is off on his trips, but I imagine harrowing is the right word for it when he's at home. He simply won't eat cornbread, and he swears at the mere sight of meat substitutes, such as mock turkey made of beans and peanut butter and things.

Babe, having married into the Navy, feels that she is under special obligation to Hooverize to the limit. She wants to end the war as soon as possible on Watson's account. In fact, she makes such a personal matter of it that she's getting herself disliked in some parts of town, and some people seem to think she is in a way responsible for the whole thing. A Portuguese woman asked Tippy the other day how long she supposed that "Mrs. Tucker's war" was going to last. She said Babe is down in their back yards every few days, looking into their slop-pails and scolding something fierce if she finds the potato parings thicker than she says they can be. Poor Babe! Between the demands of her patriotism and the demands of her difficult parents she is almost distracted at times.

I wish I could write down in these pages all the funny things that happen. Never a day goes by, either at the office or the Red Cross work-rooms, that something amusing doesn't come up. But by the time I've told it in one letter for Barby to pass on to Father, and in another to make Richard laugh, I haven't the patience to write it all out again here. The consequence is I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression of these last few months. One would think there have been no good times, no good cheer. That it's been all work and grim duty. But such is not the case. My letters will testify to that, and it's only because so much time and energy have gone into them that things have to be crowded into a few brief paragraphs in this book.

Despite all the gruesomeness of war and my separation from my family, I am so busy that I'm really and truly happy from morning till night. I enjoy my work at the office and my work at home and all the kinds of war-work that come my way. It's a satisfaction merely to turn out clean, well-typed pages, but it's bliss unalloyed to know that the money I'm getting for doing it is going to buy bread and bullets to bring about the downfall of the Kaiser.

Sometimes when old Mr. Sammy is feeling especially hopeful and there's nobody in the office but me, he begins to hum an old camp-meeting tune that they sing at his church:

I join in with a convincing alto, and afterwards we say what a glorious old world this will be when that day really gets here. "When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah," the war won and the world made a safe place for everybody. How lovely it will be just to draw a full breath and settle down and live.

At such times it seems such a grand privilege to have even the smallest share in bringing that victory about, that he's all but shouting when we get through talking, and I've accumulated enough enthusiasm to send me through the next week with a whoop. Sometimes if there isn't anything to do right then in the office, I turn from the desk and look out of the window, with eyes that see far beyond the harbor to the happy dawning we've been singing about.

I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the little home we furnished together in fancy ... the little Dream-home where I've spent so many happy hours since. I can see the smile in his dear eyes as he holds his arms out to me ... having earned the right to make all our dreams come true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith ... that all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere the wide world over....

When one can dream dreams like that, one can put up with "the long, long night of waiting," knowing it will have such a heavenly ending.

April 6, 1918. One year ago to-day the United States declared——

I had written only that far last Saturday night when I looked up to see Tippy standing in the door holding out the evening paper. I felt as I heard her coming along the hall that something was the matter. She walked so hesitatingly. Something in her face seemed to make my heart stand still, and stopped the question I started to ask. She didn't seem to be able to speak, just spread the paper on the table in front of me and pointed to something. Her finger was shaking. The four black words she pointed to seemed to leap up into my face as I read them:

Those four black words have been in front of my eyes ever since. They were in the official announcement that "Cousin James" brought down next day. He had been notified as next of kin.

At first they seemed more bearable than if they'd said killed or seriously wounded. I didn't quite grasp the full meaning of "missing." But I do now. I heard "Cousin James" say in a low tone to Tippy, out in the hall, something about death being more merciful than falling alive into the hands of the Germans. He told her some of the things they do. I know he's afraid that Richard has been taken prisoner.

He keeps telling me that we mustn't be down-hearted. That we must go on hoping as hard as we can that everything will turn out all right. The War Department is doing its best to trace him, and if he's a prisoner we'll spare no expense and effort to get food through to him. They always treat aviators with more consideration than other soldiers, and I mustn't worry. But he doesn't look one bit the way he talks. His face is so haggard that I know he's frightened sick.

Barby is, too, or she wouldn't have come all the way home to tell me the very same things that he did. She wants to take me back to Washington with her till we have farther news. She's cabled to Father. I know they all think it's strange that I take it so quietly, but I've felt numb and dazed ever since those four black words leaped up at me from the paper. I wish they wouldn't be so tender with me and so solicitous for my comfort. It's exactly the way they'd act if Richard were dead. I'm glad "Cousin James" went right back. He looked at me the way Tippy does, as if she pities me so that it breaks her heart. She doesn't know what her face shows. None of them realize that their very efforts to be cheerful and comforting show that their hopefulness is only make-believe.