Certain grim texts came into Dorothy’s mind, but she set them aside. At last she wrote:
Of such are the kingdom of heaven!
and repeated the phrase aloud.
“That’s as short as you could make it?” he said.
“Yes. Do you come down to-morrow morning—no, on Monday. I’ll baste four big sheets together, and print it all, the size you will want it. Then you can easily copy the letters. How will that do?”
“First rate. I’m awful obliged to you, Dory.”
“Can Susan read it?”
“Well, she can manage to spell it out; and you’ll read it to me a couple of times, so I’ll be able to tell her if she ain’t got the meanin’ straight. I’ll come, and don’t you let no one know.”
“Well, good-by.” She made no promise. She had too clear a sense of the ridiculous to want to let this thing stand uncriticized. It was for her a novel venture. Now she saw the man go, and stood herself a moment in the sun, facing the doorway, and resting with both hands on the table. Her own children lay in nameless graves in the far South, buried in days when war and want had made record difficult. She was recalling the live-oak grove where the two small mounds were crumbling to the common level of earth. At last she smiled, and said aloud:
“I guess Christ will know where to find them.”