“She’s a widow, isn’t she?” inquired Geraldine, who had heard something of Molly’s literary aunt.
“Yes; Stephen is her only child. Her husband died when Steve was a little boy, and he and his mother are everything to each other. Uncle George didn’t leave much money, and at first Aunt Dulcie had a rather hard time. She had to keep house for Uncle George’s father, who was a very cross, disagreeable old gentleman, and things were quite horrid, but Mother says Aunt Dulcie never once lost her grit. Of course, Mother and Aunt Maud helped her all they could, but Aunt Dulcie was very proud, and she hated taking things from people, even her own sisters. It was a long time before the publishers realized how talented she was, but now they are all crazy to get her things, and I saw in a newspaper last spring that she is spoken of as one of the leading novelists of the day. Steve is tremendously proud of his mother, as, indeed, we all are.”
“It must be terribly hard for your aunt to let her son go to the war,” said Gretel.
“Of course it is, frightfully hard, but Aunt Dulcie isn’t the kind of person to shirk what she considers her duty. I believe she would rather see Steve dead than have him not want to go. Her eyes look dreadfully sad sometimes, but she’s always so bright and full of fun that strangers wouldn’t suppose she had a care in the world. You’ll see what I mean when she comes.”
“It must be wonderful to be brave,” remarked Gretel, breaking a rather long silence, when Molly had gone away to her own room and she and Geraldine were preparing for bed. “I’m afraid I could never be like that aunt of Molly’s.”
“We never know what we may do till we are tried,” said Geraldine, practically. “If a time ever comes when you have to be brave I guess you’ll manage all right. But I don’t see any use of worrying about things that may never happen.”
Gretel laughed in spite of herself. Geraldine always did her good when she was disposed to be sentimental or morbid.
“I don’t believe you ever worry about anything,” she said a little wistfully.
“No, I don’t,” returned Geraldine. “Mother worries enough for the whole family put together. What are you going to do now? Not write a letter at this time of night? It’s long after ten.”
“I must write just a few lines to Fräulein,” said Gretel. “I’m afraid she thinks me very rude. I would like to get my letter off in the morning mail.”