It is as good as saying one's prayers. One never stops in those to
wonder whether one is shocking God, and that is what one loves God
for,--because we suppose he always understands, and therefore forgives;
and how much more--is this very wicked?--one loves one's mother who
understands, because, you see, there she is, and one can kiss her as
well. There's a great virtue in kissing, I think; an amazing comfort
in just _touching_ the person one loves. Goodnight, most blessed
little mother, and good-bye for a week. Your Chris.


Perhaps I might write a little note--not a letter, just a little
note,--on Wednesdays? What do you think? It would be nothing more,
really, than a postcard, except that it would be in an envelope.




_Berlin, Sunday, June 14th, 1914_.

Well, I didn't write on Wednesday, I resisted. (Good morning, darling
mother.) I knew quite well it wouldn't be a postcard, or anything even
remotely related to the postcard family. It would be a letter. A long
letter. And presently I'd be writing every day, and staying all soft;
living in the past, instead of getting on with my business, which is
the future. That is what I've got to do at this moment: not think too
much of you and home, but turn my face away from both those sweet,
desirable things so that I may get back to them quicker. It's true we
haven't got a home, if a home is a house and furniture; but home to
your Chris is where you are. Just simply anywhere and everywhere you
are. It's very convenient, isn't it, to have it so much concentrated