|With the Artists' Rifles, 1915|
'So we lay, all night, sometimes talking of our love and all that had been, and of the children, and of what had been amiss and what right. We knew the best was that there had never been untruth between us. We knew all of each other and it was right. So talking and crying and loving in each other's arms, we fell asleep as the cold reflected light of the snow crept through the frost-covered windows.
Edward got up and made the fire and brought me some tea, and then got back into bed, and the children clambered in too, and sat in a row sipping our tea. I was not afraid of crying any more.'
And in the morning,
'We were alone in my room. He took me in his arms, holding me tightly to him, his face white, his eyes full of a fear I had never seen before. My arms were around his neck. 'Beloved, I love you,' was all I could say. 'Helen, Helen, Helen,' he said, 'remember that, whatever happens, all is well between us for ever and ever.'
Poem: mostly Edward Thomas.