Presently Moore said—
'We lost ever so many fellows in our regiment, and I never looked to come home myself.'
His wife put her hand softly on to his head as he sat at her feet, and he looked up smiling, and forgot everything else.
'Where was it Cuthbert Franklyn died?' I asked at last.
'Killed at the battle of Conjeveram, fighting against Tippoo Saib, same day as I got this wound in the head.'
'You are sure? Did you see him after he was killed?'
'No, I got my wound early in the day. I was left for dead. They never thought I should have lived. I was a long time in hospital. When I saw some of our fellows again, after I was invalided home, they told me that Franklyn was among the missing.'
He could tell me no more than this. And I stood there, thinking sorrowfully over it. I felt that I brought a dreary silence over that happy party. David Moore and his wife spoke to each other in low voices. The old father fell asleep, and Elfrida carried little Davy out of the room.
I turned to go away; Moore followed me to the door, wished he had brought me better news, and said he would have come over to see his cousin Martha Clifford, but that his furlough was so short. Only three days to be with wife and child after this long time! So we shook hands, and he went back to his bright fireside.
It was too late to go home that night. The short winter's day was over before I left the ferry, and it was afternoon again, a dark, cold, Sunday afternoon, before I got to Wyncliffe next day.