She knelt beside his chair. Her head was bare. She wore no wrap. "We were married this morning. And my own father has gone—to France—and I wanted a father—"
"Did Derry tell you to come?"
"Bronson begged me. He was at the wedding—"
"Old Bronson?" He tried to smile, but the smile was twisted.
She was looking up at him fearfully, but her voice did not falter. "I came to tell you that Derry loves you. He doesn't want your money, oh, you know that he doesn't want it. But he is going away to the—war, and he may be killed, so many men are—killed. And he—loves you—"
"Where is he?"
"I wouldn't let him come. You see, you said things which were hard for him to forgive. I was afraid you might say such things again."
He knew that he would never say them. "Tell him that—I love him." He tried to sit up. "Tell him that he is—my son."
He fell back. He heard her quick cry, "Bronson—"
Bronson came running up the stairs, and the nurse who had watched the scene dazedly from the threshold of the General's room ran, too.