They were almost out of town now.
“Wully, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“I’m all right!”
She was more anxious than ever. She waited till the baby was asleep in her arms, and then she laid him carefully down in the little box in which Isobel McLaughlin had taken her babies back and forth to town. Then she turned towards her husband with determination. And hesitated. He looked too stern—too fierce. She sat undecided, wretched, glancing quickly at him and then away. After a few perplexed moments, her face darkened with terror.
“Oh, I know! You’re—you’ve seen him! You were like that on the Fourth!”
He turned toward her, trying to speak.
“Yes!” he broke forth. “I saw him dying.”
“Oh, dying!” She tried to realize it. “Oh, if he’s dying, then we’ll be happy again!”
He said nothing. His lips worked.
“I won’t have to be afraid now!” She spoke like one overcome by a great fortune. He had never imagined she had been as unhappy as that cry of hers indicated by its relief.