Stephen smiled as his eye took in the crabbed, old-fashioned handwriting.
“The poor old fellow can’t quite get the proper focus as to who you really are,” he said. “You appear to represent two Barbaras to him. But you will go over for a few minutes, won’t you, Bab? I doubt if Uncle Stephen will last much longer, and seeing you may be a great comfort to him.”
“Of course I will,” Bab replied. “If seeing me can bring a ray of pleasure into his life, I am glad enough to be able to do it. I should like to take him a few flowers. I know he loves them. Suppose we get some honeysuckle and late roses out of the garden before we go.”
Together they strolled toward the major’s garden, which the flames had spared, partly because it was protected by a high brick wall on three sides, and partly owing to a daily watering it had received from the gardener.
With Stephen’s penknife they clipped a bunch of dewy white roses with yellow centers, and a few sprays of honeysuckle whose fragrance was overpoweringly sweet.
The old man was watching for the young people at the window when the attendant opened the door for them. He came forward with some of the major’s grace and took Barbara’s hand in his.
“It was very good of you to come,” he said. “I heard you were going, and I wanted to say a last good-bye. I feel happier than I have felt in many years. You have forgiven me, have you not, little Barbara?” he went on, his mind confusing her again with that other Barbara whose tragic death had bereft him of his reason. “And you have brought me the roses, too?”
She nodded her head.
“Did they come from the bush near the arbor?”
“Yes,” she replied, wondering a little.