“Oh father!” both cried. They leaned together, cheek pressing cheek, and hand clasping hand, growing white and trembling. John Vincent, gazing into the fire, did not see their faces, or his purpose might have been shaken.
“I don't say NOW,” he went on. “After a while, when—well, when I'm dead. And I only mean a beginning, to help you toward what HAS to be. Only a month; I don't want to seem hard to you; but that's little, in all conscience. Give me your word: say, 'For mother's sake!'”
There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan said, in low, faltering voices, “For mother's sake, I promise.”
“Remember that you were only boys to her. She might have made all this seem easier, for women have reasons for things no man can answer. Mind, within a year after I'm gone!”
He rose and tottered out of the room.
The twins looked at each other: David said, “Must we?” and Jonathan, “How can we?” Then they both thought, “It may be a long while yet.” Here was a present comfort, and each seemed to hold it firmly in holding the hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by side.
The trial was nearer than they imagined. Their father died before the winter was over; the farm and other property was theirs, and they might have allowed life to solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for their promise to the dead. This must be fulfilled, and then—one thing was certain; they would never again separate.
“The sooner the better,” said David. “It shall be the visit to our uncle and cousins in Indiana. You will come with me as far as Harrisburg; it may be easier to part there than here. And our new neighbors, the Bradleys, will want your help for a day or two, after getting home.”
“It is less than death,” Jonathan answered, “and why should it seem to be more? We must think of father and mother, and all those twelve years; now I know what the burden was.”
“And we have never really borne any part of it! Father must have been right in forcing us to promise.”