She stared at him.
“Oh, no, James—oh, no, James—oh, no!” she whispered, over and over.
“Yes, my poor child. He is quite convalescent, and going about the wards in a wheeled chair. But he will never be able to walk again.”
“Why,” said Mary, wonderingly, “he never used to be still—he always ran, and skipped, like a child.” Her breast heaved. “He always ran, James—” she began to cry—the tears rolled down her cheeks—she ran quickly out of the room, sobbing.
James waited in silence, smoking a pipe, his face set in lines of inexpressible sadness. In half an hour she returned. Her eyes were swollen, but she was calm again.
“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. “Please read me the letter, will you?”
James read the French text. Stefan had been so brave in the trenches, always kept up a good heart. He used to sing to the others. A shell had struck the trench; they were nearly all killed or wounded. Stefan knew he would walk no more, but he was still so brave, with a smile for every one. He was drawing, too, wonderful pencil drawings of the front. Adolph thought they were much more wonderful than anything he had ever done. All the nurses and wounded asked for them. Adolph would be going back in a month. He ventured to ask Mr. Farraday to lay the affair before Mrs. Byrd. Stefan had no money, and no one to take care of him when he left the hospital. He, Adolph, would do all that was possible, but he was sure that his friend should go home. Stefan often, very often, spoke of his wife to Adolph. He wore a ring of hers. Would Mr. Farraday use his good offices?
James folded the letter and looked at Mary.
“I must go and fetch him,” she said simply.
“Mrs. Byrd—Mary—I want you to let me go. Mac has offered to do it before enlisting, but I don't think your husband cared for Mac, and he always liked me. It wouldn't be fair to the baby for you to go, and it would be very painful for you. But it will give me real happiness—the first thing I've been able to do in this awful business.”