A Cry in the Wilderness

by Mary E. Waller

I led the way. I heard him shut the front door.

There was no word of welcome on the part of either, no hand extended. All I could see, as he stood there momentarily on the step, was the set face, the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the utter fatigue in his attitude. He stood with his hand on the door jamb, bracing himself by it. So he must have stood long years before when he came to seek my mother. That was my thought.

He did not sit down; but I—I had to; I had not strength left to stand.

"I 'm going to ask you a few questions."

"Yes." My tongue was dry; my lips parched. It was with difficulty I could articulate.

"What did you think I promised you, even if without words, that last time I saw you in camp?"

"All."

"What did you promise me when you looked into my eyes, there on the shore of the cove?"

"All." I had no other word at my command.

"And what did 'all' mean to you?"