She spoke with a strong accent that, while it was somewhat like that of the man from whom Beatrice had asked the way, was not unpleasant, for her voice was rich and clear. The girl thought as she looked into the upturned face, that she had never seen such eager, appealing eyes.
“You can’t read?” Beatrice exclaimed, forgetting politeness in her surprise.
“My own language, Finnish, yes, but not yours. My boy, Olaf, made me learn to talk English plain, but I was always so busy with my two hands I could not learn to read or write. Read, read, please, before it is too dark to see the letter.”
Beatrice spread out the paper on the pommel of the saddle.
“Why,” she said, glancing at the date, “it is nearly a year old!”
“Yes,” returned the woman nodding heavily, “ten months ago he wrote it from his ship in Marseilles. I have nearly worn it out carrying it around and having it read to me. But it is only kind people I ask to read it now, for some begin to say, ‘Like father, like son; your Olaf will never come back.’”
“Was his father a sailor too?” the girl asked.
“Yes, but he sailed away from our home in Finland when our boy was only a month old, and I never heard from him again. It was nearly a year later that we learned how his ship had been wrecked on the voyage to Japan. I brought my boy to this country then where I could support him better, and what a credit and a comfort to me he was. He was wild to go in the navy when the war began, but he was just too young; so it was not till last year that he slipped away, as I had always feared he would. He hardly even said good-by to me, and this is my only letter from him. But I talk too long; you will not be able to see.”
Once more Beatrice turned to the paper and began:
“My dear mother: I expect you think I am never going to send you a letter—”