Torn between his craving for food and his desire not to interfere with any possible peace-making, William was obviously hesitating what to do, when Billy glanced up and saw him. She saw, too, at the same time, the empty, blazing gas-stove burner, and the pile of half-prepared potatoes, to warm which the burner had long since been lighted. With a little cry she broke away from her husband's arms.
“Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William, bless his heart, with not a thing to eat yet!”
They all got dinner then, together, with many a sigh and quick-coming tear as everywhere they met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands that would never again minister to their comfort.
It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was eaten, though brave attempts at cheerfulness and naturalness were made by all three. Bertram, especially, talked, and tried to make sure that the shadow on Billy's face was at least not the one his own conduct had brought there.
“For you do—you surely do forgive me, don't you?” he begged, as he followed her into the kitchen after the sorry meal was over.
“Why, yes, dear, yes,” sighed Billy, trying to smile.
“And you'll forget?”
There was no answer.
“Billy! And you'll forget?” Bertram's voice was insistent, reproachful.
Billy changed color and bit her lip. She looked plainly distressed.