he had had with himself—"you'd better see it first. But don't—suppose anything from it, please."
He thrust his hand into a side pocket and drew out a square, white envelope with English stamp and postmark and with the English strip—"Opened by the Censor." It was addressed to Barney Loutrelle, Lieutenant of Infantry in a certain American regiment in France. He handed it to her, and she pulled off her heavy gloves and drew out the single folded sheet and read, in vigorous, youthful handwriting:
Dear Barney:
One named Philip Carew is here and keeps asking for you. Do you know him? He says you don't; but he knows you; or at least seems to have some mighty important business for you.
If this sweet little altercation ceases soon, I'd advise you to come and try to learn what he wants. If you can't, perhaps you can get him there—Philip Carew, the name. Try it and see.
Yours,
Ethel's breath stopped; she stood holding the letter with trembling hand while she examined the postmark which, like the date written upon the page, was November 7, 1918.
"My father!" she said. "He was killed in June!"
"Yes; you told me so," Loutrelle replied gently.
"You don't mean that there was a mistake? My father's alive and—"
"No," Loutrelle denied quickly. "No; no; you mustn't think of that. I told you not to suppose anything from this."
