“Sairy,” said Tom wistfully, “sometimes I get an awful fear that we ain’t going to beat—”
“Sho!” said Sairy. “If we don’t beat one way we will another! I ain’t a-worryin’ about that. Nothing’s ever teetotally beaten, not even eggs when you make cake. It’s an awful safe universe.”
“It ain’t your day,” said Tom, “for a clean apron, but you’ve got one on.”
“I ain’t never denied that there was a Sunday feel in the air! We mayn’t see the army and we mayn’t see Allan, but they’re only a few miles from us.”
“What’s that I smell?—It’s gingerbread baking!”
“I had a pint of molasses saved away an’ a little sugar. I just thought I might as well make gingerbread. If Allan came he’d like it, an’ if he didn’t we could eat it talkin’ of him an’ sayin’ we were keepin’ his birthday.”
She went into the kitchen. Tom rested his forehead on the knob of his cane. His lips moved. The wind rustled the leaves of the forest, the sun shone. Thunder Run sang, the bees hummed above the old blush roses, the yellow cat came up the path and rubbed against Tom’s ankle. The smell of the gingerbread floated out hot and strong, a redbird in a gum tree broke into a clear, high carolling.
“O Lord, I’m an old man,” whispered Tom. “I ain’t got much fun or pleasure before me—”
Sairy, coming back to the doorstep, stood a moment, then struck her hands together. “Allan’s coming up the road, Tom!”
An hour of happiness had gone by. Then said Allan: “I’ve two hours yet and the last part of it I’m going to spend telling about the Wilderness and Spottsylvania and Cold Harbour. But now I want to go up the mountain and say ‘how d’ ye do’ to the Maydews.”