"We have been to Thessaly, David," she went on, as though she had not heard me. "We found the very shrine where he died and the place where you buried him, and we marked it. It seemed best that he should lie there where he had fought so bravely—his last fight—as though he would have it that way. How could I help forgiving you after that—everything?"
"Everything? Penelope, I do not understand."
She laid a hand lightly on my arm. "Tell me, David, what were my father's last words to you?"
"I wrote them to you," I answered.
"To Uncle Rufus—not to me."
"How could I write to you after that day on the Avenue?"
"That was a small thing, and I was foolish. Now I want to hear it from you myself."
I looked straight before me as I repeated the words which her father had said that night as he lay dying on the plain of Thessaly. "Tell them at home—it was a good fight."
I felt her hand lightly on my arm again. I heard her quiet voice ask:
"Was that all?"
"The rest I could not write," I answered, turning to her, and she looked from me to the mountains. "He said to me: 'David, take care of Penelope.'"