Such an one Mary came upon, a day when rain had driven her to take shelter and she came back by a foot-path across the fields. On the smooth rail of a well-worn stile the woman was seated, her feet resting for support on the step below, her body faintly swinging to and fro, not for comfort but as though she rocked sorrow like a suffering babe in her arms.
At sound, then sight of Mary who must cross the stile if she passed that way, the woman sat erect and took her feet down from their resting-place.
Once having seen her, she looked no more at Mary as she approached, but set her face outwards with a steady gaze in her eyes. In an impetus of memory, Mary recognized her as one of a little band she had seen marching to the station earlier in the day. She had been alone with her son. No sweetheart was there to share their parting. Alone she had bid farewell to him. Alone she returned.
Had there been others with her, Mary might have turned back; at least she would have hurried by. Now, coming to the stile, she stopped.
"Have you lost your way?" she inquired.
"No, thank you, Miss."
"It was only I saw you coming by the road this morning and this footpath doesn't lead to Lonesome Ford."
"We came by the road because all the boys were going that way. They take it easier when they go all together. Seems they laugh in a crowd. What we have acomin' back seems best alone."
Mary made gentle inquiries, what recruiting office her son had gone to--what regiment he hoped to join--his age--his trade--what other sons she had.
"He's my only--" she replied steadily.