"You have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said George Anderson.
"No—not much; he hasn't been strong enough. I think, too, the severe illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk in, he never talks about the old days."
"Well, mother," said George, "I must be off now; duty time is close at hand." As he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been enjoying in his mother's room.
"Of course, there is little doubt that Major Harvey is dead; but you could call at the War Office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?"
"Yes, I could and will; and I won't employ detectives, my boy. You may be certain of one thing—that I don't want to part with the child."
The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Anderson felt that it was time to question Ronald with regard to his past life.
"You are quite well now, Ronald," she said.
"Yes," said Ronald, "ever so strong. I feel brave, too," he added; "it would take a very great deal to frighten me now. A soldier's boy should be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face.
"This soldier's boy is very brave," said Mrs. Anderson, patting his little hand, as the child stood close to her.
"My father was a V. C., ma'am," remarked Ronald in a soft tone.