“I know, dear.... The old flag means so much—it means all that our fathers have been, all that we ought to be for the world’s sake. Anger, private resentment, bitterness under tyranny—these are little things; for, after all, the flag still stands for what we ought to be—you and I and those who misuse us, wittingly or otherwise.... Where are the papers you took?”
He pressed his feverish face closer to her shoulder and fumbled at the buttons of his jacket.
“Here?” she asked softly, aiding him with deft fingers; and in a moment she had secured them.
For a while she held him there, cradling him; and his dry, burning face seemed to scorch her shoulder.
Dawn was in the sky when she unclosed her eyes—a cool, gray dawn, hinting of rain.
She looked down at the boy. His head lay across her lap; he slept, motionless as the dead.
The sun rose, a pale spot on the gray horizon.
“Come,” she said gently. And again, “Come; I want you to take me across the ferry.”
He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn fists.
“You will take me, won’t you, Roy?”