“Dad—grandad—” gasped the boy.
It was all he could say, but it expressed many things—and Joseph Brinton understood them.
“Yes, yes!” said he gently, and stroked his son’s hair.
The silent, grim woman by the bed still watched and her lips moved in many prayers—prayers that Dad might recover—a prayer, too, for the mother of the Confederate captain.
More than an hour passed. Dad’s heart still beat, evenly, soundly, but he did not awaken.
Perhaps he would not, dreaded the old lady. A passionate tenderness came over her. She crossed to the corner where sat Jimmie and Joseph, and with soft words made her peace with Joseph and renewed his bandages.
Jimmie’s hand she patted. She went to the door and snapped her fingers to Napoleon Bonaparte Dog, who was lying in the shade by the doorstone, but awake, ready for his little god to come out of the cottage again.
Napoleon jumped up and came running. Emily tossed him a corner of hardtack.
As she swiftly stepped to Dad’s cot again she found him lying awake, his eyes on her, filled with a great, soft-shining reverence.
She knelt by the bed.