"Yes," joyfully. "All the march I have counted on this moment. I could not wait until to-morrow. Primrose, how are they—my dear mother?"
"She is quite well, but Uncle Henry fails and has grown very deaf. And I think Rachel and Penn do not agree well, and are not happy. But things go on the same."
"And is there—any longing for me?"
Oh, how cruel it was to feel that only the poor mother cared. For Primrose was not old enough nor suspicious enough to imagine the hundred little ways Rachel found to blame Andrew and widen the breach between him and his father.
"Thy mother is always asking for thee. I learn thy infrequent letters by heart, and repeat them to her as I get opportunity."
"Thank thee a thousand times."
"And my brother?"
"Hast thou not heard?"
"Not since the return of Allin Wharton. He is still ill and no one sees him, but Polly tells me now and then. Only he is not allowed to excite himself by talking, and it is such little dribbles that I cannot glean much. And you met face to face?"
"We were both doing our duty like brave men, I trust. I'm not sure but in the mêlée that Allin saved my life, and then——"