I crossed the room to where she stood, offering my hand; and she laid her thin and work-worn fingers listlessly in mine.
"Madam," I said gently, "there are today two thousand widows such as you betwixt Oriska and Schenectady. And, to our cause, each one of you is worth a regiment of men, your sorrows sacred to us all, strengthening our vows, steeling us to a fierce endeavour. No innocent death in this long war has been in vain; no mother's agony. Yet, only God can comfort such as you."
She shook her head slowly.
"No God can comfort me," she said, in a voice so lifeless that it sounded flat as the words that sleepers utter, dreaming of trouble.
"Shall we be seated outside on the door-sill?" whispered Lois. "The only seat within is on the settle, where she sits."
"Is this the only room?"
"Yes—save for the mouse-loft, where I sleep on last year's corn-husks. Shall we sit outside? We can speak very low. She will not heed us."
Pity for all this stark and naked wretchedness left me silent; then, as the lantern's rays fell on this young girl's rags, I remembered my packet.
"Yes, we will sit outside. But first, I bring you a little gift——"
She looked up quickly and drew back a step, "Oh, but such a little gift, Lois—a nothing—a mere jest of mine which we shall enjoy between us. Take it as I offer it, lightly, and without constraint."