It was strange how those few words changed the widow’s opinion of Rose. The fact that Thomas Carleton, whom the Rockland people fancied was a Secessionist, had joined the Federal army, did much toward effecting this change, but not so much as the fact that he had actually noticed her boy, and spoken of him in a letter.
“Miss Mather ain’t so bad after all,” she thought, and striking her axe into the log, she followed Rose to the sitting-room, listening eagerly while she read the few sentences pertaining to George and Isaac. They were as follows:
“By the way, Will, I find there’s a company here from Rockland. Fine appearing fellows, too, most of them are, and under good discipline. I am especially pleased with the second lieutenant. He’s a magnificent looking man, and attracts attention wherever he goes.”
“That’s George, you know,” and Rose, quite as much pleased as Annie herself, nodded toward the latter, whose pale cheek flushed with pride at hearing her husband thus spoken of by Rose Mather’s brother.
“Yes, but Isaac,” interrupted the widow. “Whereabouts does he come in?”
“Oh, pretty soon I’ll get to him. There’s more about George yet,” answered Rose, as she resumed her reading.
“I had the pleasure of talking with him yesterday, and found him very intelligent and sensible. If we had more men like him, success would be sure and speedy. He has about him a great deal of fun and humor, which go far toward keeping up the spirits of his company, and some of the poor fellows need it sadly. There’s a young boy in the ranks, Isaac Simms, who interests me greatly.”
“Oh-h!” and the widow drew a long sigh as Rose continued:
“I wonder he was ever suffered to come, he seems so young, so girl-like and so gentle. Still he does a great deal of good, Lieut. Graham tells me, by visiting the sick and sharing with them any delicacy he happens to have. He’s rather homesick, I imagine, for when I asked him if he had a mother, his chin quivered in a moment, and I saw the tears standing in his eyes. Poor boy, I can’t account for the interest I feel in him. Heaven grant that if we come to open fight he may not fall a victim.”
“Yes, yes, my boy, my darling boy,” and burying her face in her hard hands, the widow sobbed aloud. “I thank you, Miss Mather, for reading me that,” she said, “and I thank your brother for writing it. Tell him so will you. Tell him I’m nothing but a cross, sour-grained, snappish old woman, but I have a mother’s heart, and I bless him for speaking so kindly of my boy.”