Rushmere was the first to speak. His voice was husky and tremulous. "I'm not a rich man," he said, "yet I would almost give all I have in the world to know this hour that I have a living son."
"Oh, my boy! my Gilly!" cried the fond mother, "we shall yet see him again!"
"Whether he be dead or living," continued the farmer, too much absorbed by his own anxious fears to notice the words of his wife, "I am sartain sure that he acquitted himself like a man. Aye, that a' did." His eyes kindled as he raised them to the picture over the mantel-shelf. "An' no thanks to him. Is he not a Briton, wi' the blood of brave men running in his veins? To fight well for his country, an' to die for't, if need be, was only what his fathers did afore him. Courage was born in 'em all."
The burst of enthusiasm over, the old man closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair, muttering, in a subdued voice.
"Ah, it's very fine talking, but natur is natur after all. It doth not remove the fear that's gnawing at my heart about the lad. What do'st thou say, dame?"
He opened his eyes wide, to keep back the fast coming tears, and fixed them with an earnest gaze upon the meek pale face of his wife.
She rose up slowly from her seat, came behind his chair, and pulling his head back, bent reverently down and kissed his broad forehead.
"God comfort thee, Lawrence. He knows what is best for us. I can't feel that Gilly is dead. Something in my heart tells me that he is living. I never mistrust that voice."
"God bless you, mother dear, for the cheering hope," said Dorothy, smiling through her tears. "You were a true prophet before. Why should you be deceived now? How I wish," she continued in a sadder tone, "that I had more faith. That I could really believe that Gilbert was safe and well."