Hester Craigmile turned and looked steadily in her friend’s eyes, but did not open her lips, and after a moment Mary continued:––
“To have one’s sons taken like these––is––is different. We know they are safe with the One who loved little children; we know they are safe and waiting for us. But to have a boy grow into a young man like Peter Junior––so straight and fine and beautiful––and then to have him come and say: ‘I’m going to help save our country and will die for it if I must!’ Why, my heart would grow big with thanksgiving that I had brought such an one into the world and reared him. I––What would I do! I couldn’t tell him he might go,––no,––but I’d just take him in my arms and bless him and love him a thousand times more for it, so he could go away with that warm feeling all about his heart; and then––I’d just pray and hope the war might end soon and that he might come back to me rewarded, and––and––still good.”
“That’s it. If he would,––I don’t distrust my son,––but there are always things to tempt, and if––if he were changed in that way, or if he never came back,––I would die.”
“I know. We can’t help thinking about ourselves and how we are left––or how we feel––” Mary hesitated and was loath to go on with that train of thought, but her friend caught her meaning and rose in silence and paced the room a moment, then returned.
“It is easy to talk in that way when one has not lost,” she said.
“I know it seems so, but it is not easy, Hester Craigmile. It is hard––so hard that I came near staying at home this morning. It seemed as if I could not––could not––”
“Yes, what I said was bitter, and it wasn’t honest. You were good to come to me––and what you have said is true. It has helped me; I think it will help me.”
“Then good-by. I’ll go now, but I’ll come again soon.” She left the shadow sitting there with the basket of fruit and flowers at her side unnoticed and forgotten, and stepped quietly out of the darkened room into the sunlight and fresh air.
“I do wish I could induce her to go out a little––or open up her house. I wish––” Mary Ballard said no more, but shut her lips tightly on her thoughts, untied the mare, and drove slowly away.