"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Beckett," I began (because I meant to
address my letter to both). "I've just heard that you have
come over from America, only in time to learn of your great loss.
Is it an intrusion to tell you that your loss is mine too? I dearly
loved your son. I met him nearly four years ago, when my
brother and I were travelling in France and Belgium. Our
meeting was the romance of my life. I hardly dare to think
he told you about it. But a few months ago I took up nursing
at the Hopital des Epidemies, near St. Raphael. As you know,
he was there training. He sent us a cheque for our sufferers; and
what was fated to happen did happen. We met again. We
loved each other. We were engaged. He may have written
to you, or he may have waited till he could tell you by word of
mouth.
"I am in Paris, as you will see by this address. My soldier
brother has lost his sight. I brought him here in the hope
of a cure by your great American specialist Dr. Cuyler, but
he tells me an operation would be useless. They say that one
sorrow blunts another. I do not find it so. My heart is almost
breaking. May I call upon you? To see _his_ father and mother
would be a comfort to me. But if it would be otherwise for you,
please say 'no.' I will try to understand.
"Yours in deepest sympathy,
"MARY O'MALLEY."
As I finished, Brian waked from his nap, so I was able to leave him and
run downstairs to send off the letter by hand.
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