Mrs. Marion Wallace paused—before she answered. She literally could not say, “I am a stranger.” At her first slow words, “I am not an old friend,” such a look of despair came into the doctor’s face that she hurriedly added, “but still a friend, and—,” slowly removing her bonnet and shawl, she stepped to the hall, took the Banshee’s white apron from her, tied it about her own waist, sent the Banshee herself upstairs for a pair of slippers—“anyone’s would do”—and returning to the parlor, said, quietly: “Now, Doctor, if you will kindly give me your first instructions in writing, please. You see, I shall have to get this demoralized household set right again. When all is going smoothly, I shall only need to be told your wishes, but just at first—”
And the doctor had stared a moment, and then he had caught her hands and shook them half off, crying: “You’ll stay—you’ll take charge here? You’re a mighty fine woman, I can tell you that—and what I call a good Christian, by—!” And so this strange, Southern woman came to nurse faithfully her Northern sister in sorrow—to guide her household into ways of clocklike regularity, and so heard the story of the shawl, not once, but many times—but always told with fever-cracked lips—with burning eyes and hands wandering and restless, and alas, always with hoarse entreaties to believe her—her boy could not steal—no, not even for her, his mother! He had bought the shawl from one who swore he had come by it honestly! If only the strange woman with the angry eyes would believe her! “You see, it came about like this”—she would say, and wearily begin all over again, to explain—to convince—to defend!
Then one day the subject of her rambling talk was changed. She seemed to be reading some account of a Northern victory—over and over again, she repeated all the details—the calmness of the great General—the wild delight of the victorious troops!—the rags and hunger of the prisoners—and always ended with: “The enemy lost two thousand men killed and five thousand wounded!”
Mrs. Wallace had listened to the harassing repetition of this Northern triumph until her strained nerves could bear no more, and was turning with a flushed face to leave the bedside, when a sort of gasping sob stopped her. Once more the sick woman repeated: “The enemy lost two thousand men killed—” and then, in a tone lowered almost to a whisper, she added: “Oh, the wives and the mothers!—two thousand killed! Oh, dear God, be merciful to the poor mothers—the heartbroken mothers of the South!” and Mrs. Wallace sank upon her knees, and taking the burning hand of the sick woman in her own, she cried: “Great heart! I will love you all my life, for that gentle prayer!”
The words seemed to reach the inner consciousness of the sufferer—her hot, blue eyes turned their glance upon the calm, brown ones beside her, where they wavered for a moment—steadied—rested, and then recognition dawned in them, and a weak voice whispered: “You said—?”
“I said I loved you for your great heart!” answered Mrs. Wallace.
A faint brightness came to the sick face, and she said: “Then don’t leave me ever! We can love and mourn our dead together! Life is so hard—to bear alone—be my sister—Marion!”
They looked long into each other’s eyes. They must have thought of many things! But it was as if the hands of their dear, dead boys drew them together. And Mrs. Wallace gently answered: “I will not leave you while you want me, Martha! We will walk together, if you will it, till we are called to join our dear ones;” their hands met in a close clasp, and in ten minutes Mrs. Swift was asleep. After Mrs. Swift had recovered, the neighbors spent all their spare time, and a good deal that was not spare, in wondering “when that Southern woman was going away?”
Early in the winter they had seen two trunks and a large picture brought to the house, but they watched in vain for the exit of the aforesaid two trunks and picture. What could it mean? They all declared Mrs. Swift too active a woman to want a housekeeper—too strong to need a nurse—too proud and too well off to have a boarder! But surely she would have to go soon, now that spring was almost upon them! And lo! one sunny spring morning, both ladies, with garden hats firmly tied on, and loose old gloves protecting their hands, were out in the garden, making life a misery and bewilderment to the harmless, nearly useless old gardener, who, doddering about, accepted their orders with a respectful misunderstanding of them that promised rare developments for the future. One thing they did, though, with their own hands. Mrs. Swift had obtained a fine, young magnolia—a gift for Mrs. Wallace. It was a pretty thought, and Mrs. Wallace accepted shrub and thought with warm gratitude. And together, with smiles, and may be a tear or two, they planted the magnolia on the lawn, and at the same time filled the souls of the neighbors with a very anguish of curiosity.
When summer came, notes from a well-played piano floated from the open windows of Mrs. Swift’s house, and no matter what classic composition Mrs. Wallace might begin with, she always closed her playing with “In the Hazel Dell,” because that had been the favorite song of the young Northern soldier, and his mother loved to hear the simple, old air for his dear sake.