He chuckled. “Neighbors! Sometimes people don't see so much o' their neighbors as they used to. That is, I hear so—lately.”
“You'll stay long enough to sit down, won't you?”
“I guess I could manage that much.” And they sat down, facing each other and not far apart.
“Of course, it couldn't be called business, exactly,” he said, more gravely. “Not at all, I expect. But there's something o' yours it seemed to me I ought to give you, and I just thought it was better to bring it myself and explain how I happened to have it. It's this—this letter you wrote my boy.” He extended the letter to her solemnly, in his left hand, and she took it gently from him. “It was in his mail, after he was hurt. You knew he never got it, I expect.”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.
He sighed. “I'm glad he didn't. Not,” he added, quickly—“not but what you did just right to send it. You did. You couldn't acted any other way when it came right down TO it. There ain't any blame comin' to you—you were above-board all through.”
Mary said, “Thank you,” almost in a whisper, and with her head bowed low.
“You'll have to excuse me for readin' it. I had to take charge of all his mail and everything; I didn't know the handwritin', and I read it all—once I got started.”
“I'm glad you did.”
“Well”—he leaned forward as if to rise—“I guess that's about all. I just thought you ought to have it.”