“George does not know how sick I have been, neither do I wish to have him. It would only make his burden heavier to bear, and I try to care more for his comfort than my own.”
This was a phase of unselfishness wholly new to Rose, and for an instant she was silent, then remembering Tom’s letter, she seated herself upon the foot of the bed, and throwing aside her bonnet, took the letter from her pocket, telling Annie as she did so that she, too, was now interested in the war, and in every one whose friends had gone.
“I never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and I’ve made a heap of silly speeches, I know. Don’t you remember that time in the Hall, when I talked about your husband being shot? I am sorry, but I do think he’s more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not nearly as tall. You are faint, ain’t you?” she added, as she saw how deathly pale Annie grew, while the drops of perspiration stood thickly about her lips.
“Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, listening through the keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie whispered:
“Please don’t talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know George is very tall, but unless God wills it otherwise, the bullets will pass by him as well as others.”
Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thoughtless way of speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she bent over Annie and said:
“I am sorry. I’m always doing something foolish. You are faint; shan’t I tell the servant to bring you some water? She’s in the kitchen, I suppose,” and ere Annie could explain, Rose had darted into the neat little kitchen where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea.
“Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Hurry and bring it quick, will you?”
Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there was something rather suggestive of defiance in the square, straight back which never moved a particle in answer to the command.
“Deaf or hateful,” was Rose’s mental comment, and as it might possibly be the former, she wished she knew the girl’s name, as that would be more apt to attract her. “Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought to herself, “and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the girl that used to order mother out doors, so I’ll venture upon that name.”