“Nay, Father,” moaned Susan, “don’t ’ee call me that—don’t ’ee never call me that no more! I be a widow—I be a real widow now.”
“Ah, ’tis true,” murmured poor Frizzell indistinctly. “Ye be a widow, my poor maid—ye be a widow now, sure!”
* * * * *
But it was not so sure after all. As Mrs. Frizzell sometimes said, the most wonderfullest things did certainly happen in her family. Lo! no sooner was Private Griggs decently, and, as she imagined, finally interred than Gunner Barton took upon himself to return to life; and the complications which ensued were so bewildering that even Mrs. Frizzell was unable to cope with them. For, on the receipt of the letter which announced that Jim, though so seriously injured that he would be more or less of a cripple all his life, was indubitably recovering, and would in fact be shortly shipped home, Susan, hitherto so meek and broken, became utterly unmanageable.
She was about to set forth on some household errand when she met the postman, who informed her that he had a letter for her mother from abroad.
“Give it to me,” cried Susan quickly.
“’Tis for Mrs. Frizzell,” said the rural messenger in surprise; but the girl, with a flaming face, had already torn open the envelope.
In another moment she rent the air with strange cries and shrieks of joy.
All the inhabitants of the place came hastening forth to inquire the reason of the outcry, and there beheld the relict of Private Griggs, with her yellow hair streaming over her shoulders, and her face alight with a very passion of rapture, trampling on her widow’s bonnet, and brokenly telling her baby that Daddy was coming home.
Mrs. Frizzell rose to the emergency. Putting her arm round her daughter, she propelled her gently towards the house, without deigning to notice by word or look the importunate crowd.