Then he turned and knocked. An Irish woman well past middle-age, and with hair snowy white, opened the door.
“Mrs. Magraw?” asked the visitor.
“Yis, sir.”
“My name’s Schofield.”
“I know ye, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, quietly. “This ain’t the first toime ye’ve been to see me.”
“No—but that was a good many years ago. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down here on the porch. I want to talk to you.”
“All right, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, and tried to dust off the bench, but Mr. Schofield was too quick for her.
“I’ve heard how your husband died,” he began gently, “and I want to say this: no man ever died a nobler death.”
“I’m proud of him, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m prouder of him than I kin say.”
“We’re all proud of him. I’ve been proud of him for many years. It isn’t the first time he’s proved the stuff he was made of.”