“Oh, nothing to talk about. But—I wish I had a shoulder to weep on, Baldy.”
“Weep on mine.”
She shook her head. “No. You’d be about as comforting as a wooden Indian.”
“I like that,” hotly.
“Your intentions are good. But your mind isn’t on me. It’s on Edith Towne.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh, you’ve one ear cocked towards the telephone——”
He flushed. “Well, who wouldn’t? I want to hear from her.”
He wanted to hear so much that he did not go to church lest he miss her call. But Jane went, and sat in the Barnes’ pew, and was thankful, as she had said, for love and warmth and light.
Throughout the sermon, she stared at the stained glass window which was just above the Follette pew. It was a memorial to two lads who had lost their lives in France. The window showed the young heroes as shining knights—and that was the way people thought about them. They had been, really, rather commonplace fellows. But death had transfigured them. They would remain always in the eyes of this world as young and splendid.