They are bringing the wounded over."
"But you mustn't get too tired."
"I want to be tired. So that I can sleep."
She was finding it hard to sleep. Often she rose and wrote in her
memory book, which was becoming in a sense a diary because she confided
to its pages the things she dared not say to Derry. Some day, perhaps,
she might show him what she had written. But that would be when the
war was over, and Derry had come back safe and sound. Until then she
would have to smile in her letters, and she did not always feel like
smiling!
But that was what Derry called them, "Smiling letters!"
"They smile up at me every morning, Jean."
So she wrote to him bravely, cheerfully, of her busy days, of how she
missed him, of her love and longing, but not a word did she say of her
world as it really was.
But there was no laughter in the things she said to the old memory book.
"I don't like big houses--not houses like this, with grinning porcelain
Chinese gods at every turn of the hall, and gold dragons on the
bed-posts. There are six of us here besides the servants, yet we are
like dwarfs in a giant palace.
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