kept in ignorance. The kind and affectionate terms of these letters
never altered except with the facts they described--teething,
creeping, measles, cheeks growing round and rosy, all were conveyed
in the same smooth, pat, and proper phrases, so absolutely empty of
any glimpse of the child's personality that after the first few
months it was like reading about a somewhat uninteresting infant in
a book. I was sure Cecily was not uninteresting, but her
chroniclers were. We used to wade through the long, thin sheets and
saw how much more satisfactory it would be when Cecily could write
to us herself. Meanwhile we noted her weekly progress with much the
feeling one would have about a far-away little bit of property that
was giving no trouble and coming on exceedingly well. We would take
possession of Cecily at our convenience; till then, it was
gratifying to hear of our unearned increment in dear little dimples
and sweet little curls.

She was nearly four when I saw her again. We were home on three
months' leave; John had just got his first brevet for doing
something which he does not allow me to talk about in the Black
Mountain country; and we were fearfully pleased with ourselves. I
remember that excitement lasted well up to Port Said. As far as the
Canal, Cecily was only one of the pleasures and interests we were
going home to: John's majority was the thing that really gave
savour to life. But the first faint line of Europe brought my child
to my horizon; and all the rest of the way she kept her place,
holding out her little arms to me, beckoning me on. Her four
motherless years brought compunction to my heart and tears to my
eyes; she should have all the compensation that could be. I
suddenly realized how ready I was--how ready!--to have her back. I
rebelled fiercely against John's decision that we must not take her