She had given the order to the waiter, and was pointing out to Lucy the lines of the battle-field on which her father had died.
“There, dear, it is,” she said, with a tremor in her voice, pointing to an angle in the trench on the crest of a ridge. “There is where grandfather was killed.”
While Lucy looked and Frank climbed into her lap and was peering out the window, the conductor placed a beautiful woman and tall, distinguished-looking man in the reserved seats at the same table, opposite.
The boy turned, still on his knees, in his mother’s lap, and faced the newcomers, whom Ruth had not been able to see for the child’s movements.
He stared for a moment at the man with wide-dilated eyes, his body suddenly stiffened, and with a half sob, half cry, he sprang to the floor.
“Look! Mama, dear—look! It’s Papa!”
He threw himself on Gordon, and his little arms held his neck convulsively.
The man blushed like a girl as his great trembling fingers smoothed the boy’s hair.
Kate’s face was scarlet, Ruth turned pink and white, and Lucy, trembling and sobbing, began to scramble across her mother’s lap.
The boy’s hands tenderly framed his father’s crimson cheeks, he kissed him, and again and again his arms clung in passionate clasp about his neck.