But Arvilly told her––for as quick as she got enough strength she wuz the same old Arvilly agin, only ten times more bent on fightin’ aginst the Drink Demon that murdered her husband. Sez Arvilly: “You don’t take into consideration the Tariff and Saloon arguments of apologizin’ Church and State, the tax money raised from dead men, 62 and ruined lives and broken hearts to support poor-houses and jails and police to take care of their victims.” No; Waitstill reasoned from jest plain Bible, but of course she found out her mistake. Arvilly said: “You’ll find the nation that opens its sessions with prayer, and engraves on its money, ‘In God We Trust,’ don’t believe in such things. You’ll find their prayers are to the liquor dealers; their God is the huge idol of Expediency.”
Alan Thorne wuz hung for the murder, guilty, so the earthly court said. But who wuz sot down guilty in God’s great book of Justice that day? Arvilly believes that over Alan Thorne’s name wuz printed:
“Alan Thorne, foolish boy, tempted and ondone by the country he was trying to save.” And then this sentence in fiery flame:
“The United States of America, guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Dretful murder, to take the life of the one that loved it and wuz tryin’ to save it.
Well, Arvilly’s last thing to love wuz taken from her cruelly, and when she got strong enough she sot off for Jonesville in her soldier clothes, for she thought she would wear ’em till she got away, but she wuz brung back as a deserter and Waitstill stood by her durin’ her trial, and after Alan’s death she too wuz smit down, like a posy in a cyclone. Arvilly, in her own clothes now, tended her like a mother, and as soon as she wuz able to travel took her back to Jonesville, where they make their home together, two widders, indeed, though the weddin’ ring don’t show on one of their hands.
Waitstill goes about doin’ good, waitin’ kinder still, some like her name, till the Lord sends her relief by the angel that shall stand one day in all our homes. She don’t talk much.
But Arvilly’s grief is different. She told me one day 63 when I wuz tellin’ her to chirk up and be more cheerful and comfortable:
“I don’t want to be comfortable; I don’t want to feel any different.”
“Whyee, Arvilly!” sez I, “don’t you want to see any happiness agin?”