"--
Leila smiled. "How like him," she murmured.
"I said months. There are (there were once last week) minutes when one
felt an insolent contempt of death, although the bullets were singing by
like our brave hornets. Is that courage? I used as a boy to wonder how I
would feel in danger. Don't tell, but on going under fire I shiver, and
then am at once in quiet possession of all my capacities, whatever they
be worth. A man drops by my side--and I am surprised; then another--and I
am sure I won't be hit. But I _was_ three weeks ago in my leg! It made me
furious, and I still limp a bit. It was only a nip--a spent bullet. I
wanted to get at that anonymous rascal who did it.
"Do wire me, and write fully.
"Yours,
JOHN.
"P.S. I wonder where Tom McGregor is, and Pole's boy and Joe Grace, and
those Greys who went diverse ways. As you never talk of yourself when you
write those brief letters on notepaper the size of a postage stamp, you
might at least tell me all about these good people in Westways."
She telegraphed him, "Uncle Jim slightly wounded, is coming home. Will
write. Leila Grey."
About four in the afternoon of this July 14th Ann Penhallow kissed her
husband as he came up the porch steps. He was leaning heavily on Mark
Rivers's arm. He said, "It is quite a long time, Ann.
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