“No. But I’m detailed at one of the Washington hospitals. I’m to start first thing in the morning.”
Dad had passed one arm through his horse’s bridle. Now, with a very proprietary air, he tucked the little woman’s hand under his other arm.
“Walk a way down the lane with me,” he begged. “Now that you’re going to Washington, I don’t know when I’ll ever see you again.”
Eagerly she assented.
Followed by the amused smiles of the group of nurses on the lawn, the two elderly lovers sauntered down the deserted lane together, arm in arm, the tired horse following; the mocking-bird calling to them from the interlaced green branches above.
For a space neither of them spoke. Dad forgot his weariness; forgot everything except the strangely sweet new sense of content; of reaching at last a safe and perfect haven after long years of storm-tossed misery.
The little old lady smiled up at him.
“It’s—it’s kind of like home to be walking with you, James,” she said shyly.
Then, her housewifely eye beginning to take in details, she exclaimed:
“Land sakes, James Brinton, if you haven’t gone and torn a great rent in the shoulder of your coat! Such a careless man I never did see! And you haven’t even noticed it.”