She brushed her thick hair with upraised, girlish arms, and got out her black serge dress and a white tie. He lay and watched her thoughtfully.
"Peter," he said, unexpectedly, "how long is it since we was married?"
"Forty-nine years," answered Patience, promptly. "Fifty, come next September."
"What a little creatur' you were, Peter—just a slip of a girl! And how you did take hold—Tommy and everything."
"I was 'most twenty," observed Patience, with dignity.
"You made a powerful good stepmother all the same," mused Reuben. "You did love Tommy, to beat all."
"I was fond of Tommy," answered Patience, quietly. "He was a nice little fellow."
"And then there was the baby, Peter. Pity we lost the baby! I guess you took that harder 'n I did, Peter."
Patience made no reply.
"She was so dreadful young, Peter. I can't seem to remember how she looked. Can you? Pity she didn't live! You'd 'a' liked a daughter round the house, wouldn't you, Peter? Say, Peter, we've gone through a good deal, haven't we—you 'n' me? The war 'n' all that—and the two children. But there's one thing, Peter—"