John Travis gave a soft, quaint smile, and took a small case from an inside pocket. There were some poor little withered buds between the leaves. All the color had gone out of them, all the fragrance.
“You gave them to me,” he said. “Do you remember? Bess had them in her hand.”
Dilsey’s eyes filled with tears. Virginia leaned over and looked at them, strangely moved. Then he laid the few she had gathered beside them.
“I’m jes’ happy all through,” Dil said with shining eyes.
Miss Mary came up with some broth.
“’Pears like I don’t never want anythin’ to eat again; but you’re all so good. An’ now I’m goin’ to get well, though sometimes I want to see Bess so. An’ I’d be sorry to go ’way from Patsey. Owen’s gettin’ to be such a nice boy. Patsey keeps him straight. I d’know who’d look after thim.”
John Travis turned and gave her a rare, comforting smile. He owed her so much earthly and heavenly happiness; and he realized with a pang of anguish that she could never be repaid in this world. Had God noted the labor and love of this poor, unknown life, and written it in his Book,—the heroism so simply worked out, with no thought of self to mar any of it?
Miss Mary sent them down to supper.
“I am so thankful you had my letter in time,” Virginia said softly. “We did not think then—”
She turned scarlet under his gaze.