my bit, just knitting and surgical dressings, so I'm a marron now."
"A what, Carrie?"
"A marron. That's what they call them—a godmother," said Carrie, blushing. "I'm a godmother, not really, you know, but the way they do now, to one of our boys over there. I just sort of write to him and send him things, you know, Kate, little things like chocolate and trench mirrors—don't tell Mrs. Whipple! And try to be—well—kind of an—oh, I don't know—sort of an inspiration, only that sounds so conceited. And then he writes to me, and I—oh, just sort of help him with his problems—at least, I do if I can get him to tell me any—and send him little poems I cut out, and things, anything that might be an inspiration, or interesting items about things—well, at least—mine's named Harold Finkelstein. I don't quite understand all of his answers, I think they must be slang or something, or maybe he's a little shell-shocked, but anyway"
"Why, I think that's awfully nice."
"It isn't anything, really, only I—don't tell, Kate!—I just thought—maybe— Of course you have Joe"
"I had a letter—oh, I told you. Guess who he's seen? Hartley Harrison. He's over there with the Y. M. C. A.—Joe says Hartley's having a lovely, lovely time"
"Mercy! How can?"
