“Mamma,” said David, by and by, “are you not afraid of taking cold? It is almost dark.”
“No. I have my thick shawl.” And moving down a step, she so arranged it that it fell over David too.
“Ah! never mind me. I am not so delicate as all that, mamma,” said David, laughing, but he did not throw the shawl off, but rather drew a little nearer, and leaned on her lap.
“See the evening star, mamma. I always think—”
David stopped suddenly.
“Of papa,” said his mother, softly.
“Yes, and of the many, many times we have seen it together. We always used to look for it coming home. Sometimes he saw it first, and sometimes I did; and oh! mamma, there don’t seem to be any good in anything now,” said he, with a breaking voice.
Instead of speaking, his mother passed her hand gently over his hair.
“Will it ever seem the same, mamma?”
“Never the same, Davie! never the same! We shall never see his face, nor hear his voice, nor clasp his hand again. We shall never wait for his coming home in all the years that are before us. It will never, never be the same.”