“Mrs. O’Mara,” he said, with a hand upon her shoulder, “you have a sorrow of your own?”
She drew away from him, in terror. “Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Don’t ask! Don’t unnerve me, sir. Help me to think of her, only.” Then, more calmly: “But of course I shall think of none but her, while she needs me. Only—only, sir—as you are so kind—” she drew from her bosom a crumpled telegram, and handed it to the doctor. “Mine came at the same time as hers,” she said, simply.
The doctor unfolded the War Office message.
Regret to report Sergeant O’Mara killed in assault on Targai yesterday.
“He was a good husband,” said Margaret O’Mara, simply; “and we were very happy.”
The doctor held out his hand. “I am proud to have met you, Mrs. O’Mara. This seems to me the bravest thing I have ever known a woman do.”
She smiled through her tears. “Thank you, sir,” she said, tremulously. “But it is easier to bear my own sorrow, when I have work to do for her.”
“God Himself comfort you, my friend,” said Deryck Brand, and it was all he could trust his voice to say; nor was he ashamed that he had to fumble blindly for the handle of the door.
The doctor had finished breakfast, and was asking Groatley for a time-table, when word reached him that Lady Ingleby was awake. He went upstairs immediately.