The sea really is quite heavy. The foredecks are continually being washed.

Tuesday, May 22:

Arose about noon and ate hearty dinner. Sea is rougher with an occasional wave washing second deck.

Dorothy’s letter today was the best yet. I will certainly miss them when they run out. I wish I were on my homeward way to her instead of leaving her.

Miss Emma Mullen who lives in Paris, but is an American, is on board and very, very nice to American Ambulance men. I met her thru Tish Libby. She makes delicious coffee every afternoon and I was invited to join her party this P.M. Met many nice people among whom were Miss Lynch going to France on a special commission for the New York Sun and Mr. Symons, the baritone. I hope he sings for us before we arrive in Bordeaux.

The sky is overcast and the wind picking up. I have been very thankful for my fur coat. Warm clothes are a comfort. Paul Hoerr has been sick today and looks like a ghost. The sea really is quite heavy. The foredecks are continually being washed.

Dorothy's steamer letter No. IV for Tuesday. Written en route to Philadelphia on May 18, 1917.

Deacon lover,-

The train has just stopped at Elkino Park & I’m thinking of you as you got off here yesterday. I wish we could put the darn old clock back by some “hook or crook”. But every good thing as well as those that aren’t so good, must come to an end. Which may be interpreted to mean that even our present pain and sorrow at parting cannot last forever. Another happy holiday will come some day—and then (with war a thing of the past) we can give ourselves up to the complete enjoyment of each other.

We have been living on the sunniest hill tops—you & I—and even though we must both go down into separate valleys where there will be no sun for a while; we shall not lose for one second, the vision we gained in high places together. And someday, God willing, we shall make those dream-like visions—realities.

I bought a lot of music yesterday—among which was your old favorite—There’s a Long, Long Trail. I’m going to learn how to play that, and make myself sing it, even if I don’t feel very much like warbling just at present.

On the way to N.Y. 2.15 P.M.! I’m so happy for I’m coming to you. I was so afraid that something might happen to prevent my getting off early, but it didn’t. Then came the awful thought that I was so afraid that something might happen to prevent my getting off early, but it didn’t. Then came the awful thought that maybe you’d have to sail before Saturday, and I might not see you again, before you go. But that too has been relegated—with all other disturbing notions—to the dump heap. God’s in his heaven, and all’s right with the world—this present chaos is but part of his general plan of things, and will eventually prove a blessing in disguise.

Just before I left school, mother phoned to say good-bye and send her love and best wishes to you through me. She has been perfectly dear with me ever since Thursday. I think a lot of the trouble was due to me, and her misunderstanding of how things actually were. We’ve had a long talk together, and as a result, I feel sure that everything is going to be all right in that direction. So don’t worry. Your letter must have worked wonders—but there that’s nothing new, I’ve always maintained that—for her voice over the phone was so sweet & cheerful & loving. All she said was I’ll be thinking of you. Honey, be brave and don’t worry. Everything will turn out O.K. and I know it will.

I came across an old telegram from you sent to Glen Morris the day after our all night session. It said: “Reported for work 8.30 this A.M., feeling fine, hope you are the same”. (here my pen saw fit to run dry!) It made me laugh to recall that funny night, when you had to sleep out on the porch. I can just imagine you sending another such telegram (if it were possible) about your Red Cross work—only then it would read P.M. instead of A.M. wouldn’t it?

Do you know I believe I loved you then,- for I simply hated to go upstairs and leave you down there alone. Once I nearly came down to see if you were comfortable, but lost my nerve. So I went to bed, and thought about you instead!

Isn’t it wonderful the way things all work out? I can’t believe yet that we are really engaged; and on the other hand, I can’t remember a time since we’ve known each other that I haven’t hoped & felt that we would be some day.

Mother was horribly shocked last night when I told her I’d go to France with you tomorrow, if I only could. She seemed to think I was forward & lacking in modesty & grace,--to say nothing of being an ungrateful daughter. I guess she’s forgetting how she felt. But you understand me, don’t you, Grant? And love me faults and all??? That’s all that seems to matter now—what you say and think. And I don’t care a hang what any one else thinks as long as I know that you really love me.

I guess I’m selfish too, for my dreams & thoughts are all of you. Everything else has just sort of sunk into the background. But the background now for a time must become foreground, until you return again. Then I shall awake as from a bad dream, and know that I am yours again & forever.

Dorothy.