It was generally a bleak place enough; but this afternoon winter sunshine was giving it a cheerful look, and a holly tree, brilliant with berries, made a bright spot of colour near the door.
They say trouble makes people selfish. I scarcely remembered until now that what brought us sorrow had filled this house with rejoicing.
The picture of home gladness that met my eyes as I went in, came upon me in sharp contrast with Hildred's tear-stained cheeks and heavy eyes.
Some one had stuck holly-branches all over the room, usually so bare. The fire blazed cheerily. On one side sat David Moore's little wife, quiet still, but with a smile of great contentment on her face, looking down at her husband, who sat on a wooden stool at her feet, with his arms resting on her lap and his eyes fixed on her.
There was a handkerchief bound round his head, and when he turned round I saw that he would have looked very ill if it had not been for the radiant happiness that shone from his pale face. His mother, sitting close by, put out her hand every now and then, and touched his red coat to make sure it was really him. Even old Moore had roused up. And in the back-ground little Davy stood on the dresser with one arm round Elfrida's neck, a bunch of holly in his hand, and a scarlet handkerchief, in imitation of his father, twisted in his curly hair.
David Moore did not look like the bearer of evil tidings. The question I came to ask seemed sadly out of place among these happy people.
But there was a pause after they had greeted me, and then I had to ask it.
'You were with Cuthbert Franklyn in India?'
'Yes, I was.' He stopped a moment and then said more slowly, 'I suppose you know he's dead.'
It was true, then—quite true. I stood silent. Little Davy laughed merrily, and Elfrida stopped him with a grave 'hush.'