“As far as the poor soul could be made happy, you made her happy, Garlett,” said Dr. Maclean feelingly.
“I wonder if I did—I wonder if I did! You must have often thought it strange that I was away so much, Maclean. But honestly—it was poor Emily’s own wish.”
He was speaking with deep emotion now, staring down at the floor.
“After I left the army, it took me some time to realize how really ailing she was, though, as you may remember, I did at that time stay at home a good deal. And then one day she sent me a note by hand to the factory——”
He looked up. “That note, Maclean, was my order of release! I have kept it, and I should like you to see it some day. In it she said that she wanted me to be happy—that Dodson was quite up to looking after the business, and that she did not want me ever to feel that I couldn’t do anything which would add to my innocent pleasure in life—because of her state.”
Dr. Maclean was more touched than he would have thought possible.
“Dear me,” he exclaimed, “that was very decent of her!”
“It was,” agreed the other, “it was indeed, Maclean. And she meant every word of what she wrote. It was only yesterday, our thirteenth wedding-day, that she said to me, ‘I don’t like your spending a week-end at home. It doesn’t seem natural, my dear.’ Thank God I did—thank God I did!”
“I think everything has gone very much better here this last year,” said the doctor thoughtfully.
“How d’you mean?”