My mother came and stood beside me with streaming eyes, and said:
“Henry Brown, I am Anne Jones.”
“Anne Jones, come here,” he said.
He felt her wrinkled forehead and her white hair with his hand. He seemed to be vainly trying to see her face. He was like one looking far away. “Oh, I can see you!” he said. “Hair as yellow as a com-tassel, an' blue eyes an' cheeks as red as roses, an' feet like a fawn's. You are beautiful, an' I love you, Anne, I love you. I've wanted to tell you—these forty years.”
It may be that she loved him, also, for she never left his side until one June day, more than a month later, we saw for the last time this modest, gentle, unknown hero of war and peace.
CHAPTER XIII.—PEACE
