“There, there, my boy! You were right—I wasn’t much good, and if you did think of me as a soldier, it’s more than I deserved. Don’t—don’t, my boy! I don’t at all understand what you mean about business having killed something in you. You were always an upright man.”
“I’ve always been proud of you—I’ve always prayed that the dear God would forgive me for my own useless life because my son was a man who helped build up progress and helped keep his world going. And you were always so honest—”
The prim Joseph Brinton of the office was not yet all transformed into a soldier of the legion. The sick man, his moment of breakdown passing, listened to his father’s praise quite calmly, taking it quite as a matter of fact.
There was no little pride in the manner in which he assented:
“Well, yes, I suppose I always was honest, as you say.”
Nor did he offer any protest as Dad bustled about, bathing his cheeks and twitching his hot pillow into shape, and running to the door to gaze out into the stifling haze for a sign of Jimmie and the nurse.
But when Dad at length settled down beside the cot, patting Joseph’s hand, the two of them sat quiet there in the dusk of the little room.
And for the first time since Joseph had thought of his father as disgraced, there was peace and love hovering about them, glorifying the dingy cottage between the battle lines.
Loud hummed the great locusts outside, a drowsy, distant z-z-z, z-z-z, like the lazy croon of the death-bearing Minie balls which Dad (that inveterate old child, who would never stop his making believe!) half-unconsciously pretended they really were.