“Hello, Tommy!” shouted Martin.
“By gum!” gasped Tommy.
But the spell was broken, and the three joined company to make a tour of the farm. Angèle was quite unembarrassed and promptly rescued both boys from sheepishness. She knew that the observant “White Head” would harrow Evelyn Atkinson’s soul with a full description of the tender episode behind the big pile of wood. This pleased her more than Martin’s gruff “spooning.”
Inside the farmhouse conversation progressed vigorously. Mrs. Saumarez joined in the talk with zest. The quaint gossip of the women interested her. She learnt, seemingly with surprise, that these, her humble sisters, were swayed by emotions near akin to her own. Some quiet chronicle of a mother’s loss by the death of a soldier son in far-off South Africa touched a dormant chord in her heart.
“My husband was killed in that foolish war,” she said. “I never think of it without a shudder.”
“I reckon he’d be an officer, ma’am,” said Martha.
“Yes; he was shot while leading his regiment in a cavalry charge at the Modder River.”
“It’s a dreadful thing, is war,” observed the bereaved mother. “My lad wouldn’t hurt a fly, yet his capt’in wrote such a nice letter, sayin’ as how Willie had killed four Boers afore he was struck down. T’ capt’in meant it kindly, no doot, but it gev me small consolation.”
“It is the wives and mothers who suffer most. Men like the army. I suppose if my child were a boy he would enter the service.”
“Thank the Lord, Martin won’t be a sojer!” cried Martha fervently.