“It solves the whole problem,” he said. “One ship, one funeral, one grave, one monument—it is admirably conceived. It does you honor, Major Hawkins, it has relieved me of a most painful embarrassment and distress, and it will save that poor stricken old father much suffering. Yes, he shall go over in one basket.”
“When?” asked the wife.
“To-morrow-immediately, of course.”
“I would wait, Mulberry.”
“Wait? Why?”
“You don’t want to break that childless old man’s heart.”
“God knows I don’t!”
“Then wait till he sends for his son’s remains. If you do that, you will never have to give him the last and sharpest pain a parent can know—I mean, the certainty that his son is dead. For he will never send.”
“Why won’t he?”
“Because to send—and find out the truth—would rob him of the one precious thing left him, the uncertainty, the dim hope that maybe, after all, his boy escaped, and he will see him again some day.”