He took from under his pillow a packet of little blue letters, tightly tied with a piece of twine.
"Here they are! These letters have meant a lot to me while I was in the trenches. They still mean a lot to me. They were written by my Fairy Godmother."
"No, indeed! I wouldn't ask a woman to read another woman's love letters. I wouldn't let anyone but you read these letters, but my eyes are too punk to read them myself and I have to--to hear them to decide something, something very important."
"All right! A nurse is a kind of father confessor and what one hears professionally is sacred."
"But, my dear, I am not thinking of you as a nurse."
She slipped the top letter from the packet and turned it over. "So your name is Stephen Scott!"
"Didn't you know my name, either? How funny!"
"I only know the names of the patients who have charts, and you are too well to waste a chart on. We nurses call you the convalescent American. Sure these are not love letters?"
"Of course!" impatiently. "But if you don't want to read them to me, just say so. Maybe you are tired. Of course you are. You look pale and your little hand is trembling."
The _salle de bal_ of the old château was very quiet. The wounded soldiers were dropping off to sleep one by one. Even the Bedouin chief had stopped rolling his eyes and was softly snoring. In a low clear voice she read the letters.
It is so wonderful to be a Godmother that I can hardly contain myself for joy. It is through an advertisement I saw in a New York paper, headed Fairy Godmothers Wanted, that I happen to have you and you happen to have me. I consider our introduction quite regular as it came through the wife of a great general.
I wonder how you like belonging to me? I wonder if you are as alone in the world and homeless as I am. I wonder if you are big or little, dark or fair, old or young. I wonder all kinds of things about you,--after all, it makes no difference, any of these things. You are my Godson and every day I am going to pray for you and think about you. I am going to send you presents and write you long letters and send you newspapers. The only trouble about it is by the time I get hold of English papers they will be weeks and weeks old. I wonder if American magazines and papers would appeal to you. I wonder what kind of presents you would like,--not beaded antimacassars and not mouchoir cases surely. I will knit you a sweater maybe, but I am not very fond of knitting.