Only one who knew the erratic Mrs. Sinclair, as Patterson knew her, could have understood that sudden change in her manner which bespoke a broken heart. “Mary.” The never forgotten, the always beloved, the forever mourned. In that love and in that self-reproachful memory, lay the secret of this strange and restless life.
The little old lady, whose face was wizened and wan, dropped into her chair and Patterson went and stood beside her.
“There, ma’am. I wouldn’t. It’s all past and gone. There’s still a heaven where you can meet her, even though, as you said, it’s too late for this world.”
Mrs. Sinclair bobbed her head, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “It was you who said that, Patterson.”
“Was it, ma’am? I don’t remember that.”
“Listen. When I came home from the Pacific, as usual, I got out at all the stations to rest myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“At one of them, called Tuttle, which was just a man or two, a water-tank and a house, with a few other folks thrown in—at this wretched spot I saw—two children.”
“So you said, ma’am.”
“Excuse me, I said nothing of the kind. I never mentioned it. Somebody said they were Indian captives, just rescued. When I looked at them something went through my heart like a shot. Those children made me think of Mary. They had eyes like Mary’s. And—Patterson, sit down. You’ll need support now.”