“That was three years ago,” said Mrs. Ward. “Them boys must be eighteen and nineteen now.”
III
If I have intruded too greatly into the intimacy of Mrs. Ward’s life, one of my excuses must be—not that I am “a scholard” but that I am in any case able to read a simple English letter. I was in fact on several occasions “requisitioned.” When Lily was not at home, some one had to read Ernie’s letters out loud. The arrival of Ernie’s letters was always an inspiring experience. I should perhaps be in the garden with Mrs. Ward, when Tom would come hurrying out to the back, and call out:
“Mother! a letter from Ernie!”
And then there would be such excitement and commotion. The first thing was always the hunt for Mrs. Ward’s spectacles. They were never where she had put them. Tom would keep on turning the letter over in his hands, and examining the postmark, and he would reiterate:
“Well, what did you do with them, mother?”
At length they would be found in some unlikely place, and she would take the letter tremblingly to the light. I never knew quite how much Mrs. Ward could read. She could certainly read a certain amount. I saw her old eyes sparkling and her tongue moving jerkily between her parted lips, as though she were formulating the words she read, and she would keep on repeating:
“T’ch! T’ch! O dear, O dear, the things he says!”
And Tom impatiently by the door would say:
“Well, what does he say?”