It was Porter and Mary who told Leila. The General had begged them to do it. "I can't," he had said, pitifully. "I've faced guns, but I can't face the hurt in my darling's eyes."
So Mary's arms were around her when she whispered to the child-wife that Barry was—dead.
Porter had faltered first something about an accident—that the doctors were—afraid.
Leila, shaking, had looked from one to the other. "I must go to him," she had cried. "You see, I am his wife. I have a right to go."
"His wife?" Of all things they had not expected this.
"Yes, we have been married a year—we ran away."
"When, dear?"
"Last March—to Rockville—and—and we were going to tell everybody the next day—and then Barry lost his place—and we couldn't."
Oh, poor little widow, poor little child! Mary drew her close. "Leila, Leila," she whispered, "dear little sister, dear little girl, we must love and comfort each other."
And then Leila knew.