Speak she could not for a time.
“Oh, mother dear, what is it?”
“Tell us, mother, tell us all.”
“Is father killed?”
The sight of our anguish probably helped to stem for a time the current of her own.
“N-no,” she sobbed. “Father is not killed—but he is wounded—slightly, he says,—and, I must go away to him.”
Here she hugged us to her breast.
“It will not be for long, children—only just a little, little time—and you must both be so good.”
Our turn had come now—our very hearts seemed swamped as the great grief came swelling over them, like the waves of the ocean. She let us weep for a time, she made no attempt either to repress our tears or to stop our senseless, incoherent talk.
“You cannot go. You must not leave us.”