The old man shook his head.
"Think!" said the other.
Then while he looked into the stranger's eyes, there stole across his heart the wind that blows through the orchard when the fruit is ripe. He drew in great breaths of it, in doubt, and at last he said in a whisper so low that he hardly heard himself, "You have been to his grave—his little grave!"
"Yes," said the man, "I have. His mother goes there alone—not even I go with her. She goes alone."
"No," said the old man solemnly, "no. God goes with her. I thought that she would have died—why did she live?"
"Because," said the other, "because you would have been alone. And you could not have kept yourself a man, if she had gone, too."
"Ah, yes!" said the old man softly, "that is it. She is an angel! When he was born I was almost afraid. I said, 'My son! I have a son! If I should die to-night, he would live and I should live in him!' And when she brought him herself into the orchard—I see her now—I see her now!"
He could not lift his head from the pillow, he was so tired and weak, but with his eyes he begged the other to come nearer. The man came close to the couch and looked down tenderly at the old man. "She wore the white trailing gown," he said.
"Yes," whispered the old man, "and the great wide hat. And she held him up under the brim and said that if it should rain, she and he could keep dry together, but I must stay in the rain!"
"Do you remember," said the other, "how when he could just say words, you played with him under the apple tree?"