"You've become a philosopher," growled Laurence.
"Yes," the old man chuckled. "Long ago I took to the road. Since then I've never owned anything nor had any care for the morrow. I travel like the birds and pick up my living as I go."
Laurence made no comment but continued to gaze into the fire, sunk deep in reverie. He looked very tired; his whole big frame relaxed, his eyelids drooped.
But he was thinking—or rather, whole scenes from the past were flashing by him, things long forgotten, it seemed.... After a rather long silence he said dreamily:
"You know Pat was killed at Shiloh, I suppose?"
"I heard he was killed, yes—that is, I didn't know it till I got back here."
"And you didn't know my mother was dead, either—or what had become of me?"
"No, Larry, no—how could I?"