"Won't I though? I'll show you, father," she cried in sweet defiance. "Do you think I'm nothing but an ornament, a useless ornament?" she asked reproachfully. "Why can't a woman bear her part in the battle just as well as men?—I'm going to do it, anyhow. I know how to do lots of things; I can teach, or sew, or do woodwork—or I can learn stenography—it doesn't matter which; only we'll fight it out together, father, you and me—and mother," she added dutifully.
David's eyes were swimming with loving admiration. Once or twice he tried to utter what he felt, but the words seemed to choke before they reached his lips. Finally he found the very ones he wanted. "Madeline, you're a thoroughbred," was all he said; but the girl knew the greatness of the eulogy.
David turned again to his visitor. "Please don't think I'm buttin' in where I've no business—but I can't keep from wonderin' if—if—if this has took everythin'," he said in much embarrassment. "That's been kind of hauntin' me for months."
The old man smiled. "I dinna feel it maitters muckle aboot mysel'," he answered slowly. "I'll hae what I'll be needin' till I gang till my rest, I'm thinkin'," he went on quietly; "an' ony way, I gaed intill't wi' my eyes open—but I thocht it was for the best. There's juist ae maitter that's giein' me mair trouble than anither."
"What's that?" David asked abruptly; "I'll bet all I haven't got it's not yourself."
"Weel, ye're richt—it's no mysel'," Geordie answered; "I could thole it better if it was. It's the laddie—it's Harvey, ye ken. You an' me'll no' be able to help him ony mair—an' the laddie was daein' fine at the college; an' I'm dootin' it'll be a sair blow on his puir mither to tak' him awa. Does she ken?" he asked, slowly raising his head towards David.
"I don't think so," said his friend; "but I suppose she'll have to be told sooner or later."
"Hoo lang will it be till the laddie's through?"
"He gets his degree the next graduating class," volunteered Madeline, her face showing the keenness of her interest. "It's not so very, very long," she added wistfully, looking as unconcerned as possible.
Then the old man began in the quietest and most natural way to tell David and Madeline all about his circumstances, the simple story touched with the pathos of an utterly unselfish heart. For his chief concern was evidently not for himself at all—he would have enough with strict economy to keep a roof still above his head—but his grief for Harvey's interrupted career was sincere and deep. He recognized fully, and admitted frankly, that it would take what little was left him to supply the humblest necessities of his remaining years. But this seemed to give him little or no disquietude; his thoughts were divided between Harvey and his mother, and he seemed troubled as to how the latter should be apprised of the cloud that had brought this additional darkness to her life.