"'Ere, oh, 'ere it ain't that," the lad said in a sudden passion of protest, the tears standing in his eyes. "It ain't that! Wot's money, when your friend wot give it ain't 'ere! I never done nothing for 'im—that's wot I feel. Nothing at all for 'im."
"You are wrong," was the soft reply. "He told me only a few days ago that you were like a loaf of bread in the cupboard—good for all the time."
The tears left the wide blue eyes. "Did 'e say that—did 'e?" he asked, and when she nodded and smiled, he added, "'E's 'appy now, ain't 'e?" His look questioned her eagerly.
For an instant she turned and gazed at the sunset, and her eyes took on a strange mystical glow. A colour came to her face, as though from strong flush of feeling, then she turned to him again, and answered steadily:
"Yes, he is happy now."
"How do you know?" the lad asked with awe in his face, for he believed in her utterly. Then, without waiting for her to answer, he added: "Is it, you hear him say so, as I hear you singin' in my sleep sometimes—singin', singin', as you did at Glencader, that first time I ever 'eerd you? Is it the same as me in my sleep?"
"Yes, it is like that—just like that," she answered, taking his hand, and holding it with a motherly tenderness.
"Ain't you never goin' to sing again?" he added.
She was silent, looking at him almost abstractedly.
"This war'll be over pretty soon now," he continued, "and we'll all have to go back to work."