all the firmness he could muster and began:--

"DEAR WIFE,--I got your letter about Jim he ought to gone long ago,
shirking I calls it. This hospital is very nice and when you come down
from London youll see all the flowers and the gramophone which is a
fair treat. My wounds is slow and I often gets cramp."

No sooner was the fatal word written than the fingers of his right
hand began to stiffen, the pencil fell upon the bed, then rolled
dejectedly to the floor, where the writer said it might stay for
all he cared.

"You must let me finish the letter," said I, when his hand had been
rubbed and tucked away in a warm mitten.

"Thank you, Miss; I was getting on nicely, and there's not much more
to say," he returned ruefully, scanning the wavering lines before him.

"Well, shall I go on for a bit and let you wind up," said I,
unscrewing my pen and taking the pad on my knee.

"Me telling you what to put like?" he asked with a look of pleased
relief.

"That's it. Just say what you would write down yourself."

He cleared his throat.

"DEAR WIFE," he resumed, "the wounds is ... awful, not letting me
write at all. The one in my back is as long as your arm, and they says