As he neared the little nutshell of a house his heart beat fast at the sight of a woman pinning clothes to the line. Her fingers, stiff and swollen, moved slowly. The same instinct that had guided him down this road made him dismount and tie his horse. The old woman came slowly down the little path to meet him.
“I am David Dunne,” he said gently, “and I used to live here. I wanted to come to see my old home once more.”
He thought that the dim eyes gazing into his were the saddest he had ever beheld.
“Yes,” she replied, with the slow, German accent, “I know of you. Come in.”
He followed her into the little sitting room, which was as barren of furnishings as it had been in the olden days. 137
“Sit down,” she invited.
He took a chair opposite a cheap picture of a youth in uniform. A flag of coarse material was pinned above this portrait, and underneath was a roughly carved bracket on which was a glass filled with goldenrod.
“You lived here with your mother,” she said musingly, “and she was taken. I lived here with my son, and––he was taken.”
“Oh!” said David. “I did not know––was he––”
His eyes sought the picture on the wall.