"Not too hot," Mrs. Rumbelow answered; "it's good for my poor old rheumaticy bones."
"I hope you get good news of your son?" questioned Josephine kindly.
"Yes, miss, thank you," was the answer, cheerfully spoken; "he's well and happy."
"Happy?" echoed May. "Why, he's in the trenches, isn't he?" She wondered how happiness could be possible under such circumstances.
Mrs. Rumbelow assented.
"I've a letter from him here," she said, "it came this morning. I've read it again and again. I'd like you to hear one part of it—then you'll understand maybe."
She took up the letter, which she had dropped on her lap, and read aloud—
"I feel I'm in the right place at last, mother, so don't you worry or fret. You know I never was religious, and I used to grow impatient with you when you'd beg me to repent of my sins and turn to God. Well, I want to tell you this—here, facing death, a change has come to me. The other day my chief pal was killed, and the night afterwards I prayed—I hadn't done that for years before; and it seemed as though there was really Some One here Who heard me, Who was very near, a Presence I couldn't see yet could feel. I believe Jesus came to me in answer to my prayers that night, and I believe He's with me still. So don't you trouble about me, mother."
Mrs. Rumbelow broke off, folded the letter carefully and put it in her pocket. Her lips were quivering, but her expression was one of thankfulness and joy.
"There is no need for you to trouble about him now, is there?" Josephine said gently.