"I don't know," said Henrietta; "I don't think there is anything much to like in me. No one does care for me. I think if no one likes one, one doesn't deserve to be liked."
"Oh, nothing in this life goes by deserts."
"People love you, and they're quite right; you ought to be loved. You did care for me once, though. Herbert wrote—you know, when we lost—'A good cry with you will be more comfort to Evelyn than anything else.' Even then, in the middle of it all, it made me happy."
"Oh, Etta, what you were to me then!"
Henrietta took Evelyn's hand and squeezed it convulsively. When she could speak, she said: "Evelyn, do you ever think of our children?"
"Think of them—of course I do. Do you, Etta?"
"I used to, but I tried not to—it was too bitter. The children were what I lived for, and I don't think of them often now. It's past and gone."
"Oh, I couldn't live if I didn't. I don't think it is bitter now. These dear boys, they're not quite the same to me as the ones that were taken."
"I thought you'd forgotten them."
"I thought you had, Etta, and I couldn't help feeling it."