"Thee used to love the chickens so much," she said gently. "We have some pretty ones. While thy aunt talks business let us get out and see them. I sit in doors so much thinking, and though I try not to question the will of Providence, life does not seem quite as it used. It may be that I am getting old. Poor mother used to sit under the tree yonder, but when it comes my time, Faith will be too womanly and too busy to look after me, and perhaps married."
They walked down the well-trodden path. There were chicken mothers in little coops, and yellow, downy balls, others with tiny wings and patches of feathers here and there.
"Thou didst see Andrew before he went away?"
The mother's eyes had a soft, wistful, far-off look.
"Yes. And a lovely letter that I have read again and again. Oh, why did I not bring it—but indeed I did not know"—pausing in a tone that indicated what might be meant.
"A mother is a mother always. A father may feel hard when his plans are traversed. Tell me about my son; for I cannot shut my heart upon him."
"He makes a handsome soldier and a good one. He will have a large heart and a wise head."
"But a soldier! And to kill his fellow-creatures. We are to live in peace."
"But I was to say when I could, that he kept thee in his heart day and night, and that he would never forget thee. Dear Aunt Lois, he is brave and good and tender of soul, and I know God loves him for his work to the poor and needy last winter."
"I have wondered many times how he escaped. We only knew that he was safe."