"Yes, but we've got to leave out something."
"Not that, though. Perhaps there is something else. 'The seventeen call is out'--that's got to stay."
"'The sixteen comes next.' That's just got to stay."
"'I'm not going to wait for it,'" read Caroline.
"We can't cut that out," said Wilfred; "we don't seem to be making much progress, do we?"
"Well, we will find something in a moment. 'Do you think I am'----" she hesitated a moment, "'a damned coward,'" she read with a delicious thrill at her rash, vicarious wickedness.
Wilfred regarded her dubiously. He felt as an author does when he sees his pet periods marked out by the blue pencil of the ruthless editor.
"You might leave that out," he began, cutting valiantly at his most cherished and admired phrase.
"No," protested Caroline vehemently, "certainly not! That is the best thing in the whole letter."
"That 'damn' is going to cost us seven dollars, you know."
"It is worth it," said Caroline, "it is the best thing you have written. Your father is a General in the army, he'll understand that kind of language. What's next? I know there's something now."
"'Tom Kittridge has gone. He was killed yesterday at Cold Harbor.'"
"Leave out that about"--she caught her breath, and her eyes fixed themselves once more on that little round hole in the breast of his jacket--"about his being killed."
"But he was killed and so was Johnny Sheldon--I have his uniform, you know."
"I know he was, but you don't have to tell your father," said Caroline, choking up, "you don't have to telegraph him the news, do you?"
"That's all there is to the letter except the end."
"Why, that leaves it just the same except the part about----"
"Yes," said Caroline in despair, "and after all the work we have done."
"No," said Caroline, "there is no use. Everything else has got to stay."
"Well, then we can't telegraph it. It would cost hundreds of dollars."
"Yes, we can telegraph it," said Caroline determinedly, "you give it to me. I'll get it sent."
"But how are you going to send it?" asked Wilfred, extending the letter.
"See here!" the boy cried. "I am not going to have you spend your money, and----"
"There's no danger of that, I haven't any to spend." She took the letter from his hand. "I reckon Douglass Foray'll send it for me. He's in the telegraph office and he'll do most anything for me."