Mrs. Thomson sat on her low chair by the fireside—the nursing chair where she had sat and played with her babies in the long past happy days, her kind face disfigured by much crying, her hands idle in her lap, looking at her first-born as if she grudged every moment her eyes were away from him. It seemed as if she were learning every line of his face by heart to help her in a future that would hold no Robert.
Jessie, freed for the night from her nursing, sat silently doing a last bit of sewing for her brother.
Alick was playing idly with the buckle of Robert's haversack, and relating at intervals small items of news culled from the evening papers, by way of cheering his family. Robert, always quiet, was almost speechless this last evening.
"I saw Taylor to-day," Mr. Thomson remarked, after a silence. "He asked to be remembered to you, Rubbert. In fact, he kinda hinted he would look in to-night—but I discouraged him."
"Wee Taylor! Oh, help!" ejaculated Alick.
"You were quite right, Papa," said his wife. "We're not wanting anybody the night, not even old friends like the Taylors."
Silence fell again, and Alick hummed a tune.
"Rubbert," said Mrs. Thomson, leaning forward and touching her son's arm, "Rubbert, promise me that you'll not do anything brave."
Robert's infrequent smile broke over his face, making it oddly attractive.
"You're not much of a Roman matron, wee body," he said, patting her hand.