“They mauled him, Polly, mauled him. And they took him––to what?”
Polly got up.
“Peter,” she said, “you’re a sick man or you wouldn’t be such a fool. I always did hold that your easy-going ways might lead you into mush instead of clear vision, and it certainly looks as if I was right. What you need is a good spring tonic and more faith in God. Maclin was leading us into––what? Hasn’t he sent the old doctor’s boy into––what? The Almighty has got all sorts to deal with––and he’s got Maclin, but we’ve got what’s left. Peter, I put it up to you––what are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do?” Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spread knees––for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. “Has any one heard of Larry?”
This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not be asked.
“Yes, Peter. Twombley has,” she faltered.
“Where is he?” Peter’s mouth gaped.
“The letter said that when he came back we’d be proud of him and”––Polly choked––“he begged our pardons––for Maclin. He’s gone to that war––over there. He said it was all he could do––with himself, to prove against Maclin.”
A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catch in her voice: