“Yes; and the boys, except Ned. He is in the wood, somewhere. I am all alone, Margaret. What is it, dear?”
“Something very unpleasant has happened, Anne; nothing serious—I mean, no personal calamity. Margaret will explain.” And so saying, he went into the cabin, while Mrs. Lyndsay sat down on a low stool, and, letting her head fall on Anne’s bosom, began to cry. But this time she had herself well in hand, and the burst of tears was wholesome, as Anne instantly knew. She let her hand fall over Margaret’s neck.
“Have it out, dear,” she said. “A man always says, ‘Don’t cry’; a woman says, ‘Cry; it will help you.’ Cry as much as you want to. God knew our wants when he gave us tears. No; don’t try to explain,—not yet, not yet.” And the reassuring hand put back a stray lock of hair, and rested in tender caress on the wet cheek.
Both were still for a few minutes, save for an occasional sob.
“Now I am better, Anne. I can talk now. How well you know!—what is it, dear?” she added, abruptly, for a brief exclamation, “Oh, my God!” broke from Anne’s lips. She was in the extremity of physical pain. The tone and words were unusual, as coming from these lips, and Margaret, instantly turning aside from her own trouble, caught the look of suffering on the other woman’s face. She wiped her eyes hastily.
“Are you ill, Anne?”
“Yes. Oh, not ill! I had a stitch in my poor old side.” Then she laughed low. “I am sure it is years older than the rest of me. Get me your smelling-salts.”
Margaret got up at once and went into the cabin. As for Anne, smelling-salts, hot-water bags, sedatives, and, in fact, the whole armament of the invalid, were to her altogether unpleasant. But now she was in some want of a minute to herself. She got it, and more, for Margaret was some time before she came out with the smelling-salts and a flask.
“No, dear,” said Anne; “no brandy.” She used the smelling-salts, and returned them to her sister-in-law. “I hate all scented things. I am better now. Tell me all about it, and don’t hurry. What is it?”
“We went up to my boy’s grave, and, Anne, Anne, some one had trampled it all over—trod on my—my dead!”