t?"

"He's delirious," said Betty simply, adding, with the ring of pride in her
voice: "He seemed two inches taller when he told me about it. Oh, the
spirit of our boys--the wonderful spirit of them! It can't take them long,
it can't, when they once get started!"

"But Mrs. Sanderson," put in Amy gently. "How is she taking it?"

"I haven't seen her yet," said Betty, her face sobering a little. But it
brightened again as she added with conviction: "I think we know enough
about that little lady to be sure she'll take it standing up and be
prouder than ever of her 'Willie boy.'"

"Of course she will," said Grace softly, her eyes following the red disc
of the sun as it sank slowly in the west. "We're all awfully proud of
them, but I don't think any of us can help wishing that it were all over
instead of just beginning, and that the boys were coming home to us
victorious."

"We shouldn't be human if we didn't feel that way," said Betty soberly.
"But we haven't come to the joyful part, yet. Just now we've got to keep
cheerful and hold on hard to our hope and faith in the future. We owe that
to the boys, the boys who are fighting, perhaps dying for us, more than
we owe it to ourselves.

"But now," she added, forcing a lighter tone, "we've got a big treat
before us and we're not going to think of anything but just that. Our
letters, girls--we've been forgetting them."

The girls started, looked surprised, then instantly responded to the
challenge of her lighter tone.

"Goodness, it's you who made us forget them, Betty Nelson," cried Grace,
squeezing the Little Captain's hand fondly, then falling to with a will on
her own momentarily neglected mail. "Just see," she added wickedly,
holding up two letters with the coveted foreign postmark before their
envious eyes, "what an advantage it is to have a brother in the army as
well as a--a--"

"Well, go ahead," Betty teased, while the others laughed delightedly at
her flaming color. "What is that other thing you've got besides a brother,
the mere mention of whose name makes you the color of a beet?--I should
say," correcting herself with a demure little smile, "the color of a
flaming sunset--"

"That would be more poetic," agreed Mollie soberly, while her eyes danced.
"But either description would be correct."

"You geese," cried Grace, trying vainly to hide her flushed face behind
the letter she had opened. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking
about."

"She remin