they said good night and hurried away to their rest.
Back in her own room, Blythe settled down in her chair, her knees still weak from that sudden startled realization of Charlie's peril. She looked about her. Was it only this morning that she had gone downstairs to hear him tell her that he loved her? It seemed that she had lived years since the morning dawned and she went happily down to pleasant duties, without a thought that this war was coming into her life. Really coming. Not just by forcing her to go without a few luxuries, doing a few unusual things, economizing—less candy and sugar and coffee, fewer beefsteaks, walking miles instead of using her car. The war had struck to the center of her being now, through the boy she had watched over the years and greatly admired, and who had suddenly become beloved beyond anything that had ever touched her life before.
For some time she sat there quietly and relaxed in her chair, trying to think it all out.
And would the morrow bring her a letter? No, for that would scarcely be possible. Her soldier had said all mail would have to go to headquarters before it could be forwarded to her, that is, after they had really started on their mission. And now that she was beginning to understand a little what terrible possibilities loomed before such missions, her heart trembled at the thought.
But oh, how she longed to get a word from him, his handwriting written to her! How wonderful that was going to be! A letter from Charlie Montgomery, all her own! She must get to sleep to hurry on another day, to bring that letter nearer to her.
Quietly, with her light turned out because she didn't want her mother to come in and ask her what was keeping her up, she got ready for sleep and, creeping into her bed, lay thinking over all that had happened since morning. But though she had been good friends with Dan Seavers for years, not one thought of him came to spoil her bright vision.
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