"There's some you said were dead,"—as if no one were speaking, with the same dull look. "Or lost: I think they're not dead. If there might be a chance yet! If I could but see Martha and the little chaps, it would save me, John Yarrow, no matter what they'd learned to think of me. They're mine,—my little chaps. She said the boys should never know. She said that of her own free will."
"Is it likely she could keep her word?" said Soulé, sneeringly.
"Why, why, she loved me, John,"—a moist color and smile coming out on his face. "There's a little thing I minded just now that—Yes, Martha kept her word."
He tapped with his fingers thoughtfully on the mantel-shelf, the smile lingering yet on his face. The woman's woollen sewing fell from her hand, and she spoke for the first time. Her tone had a harsh, metallic twang in it: Yarrow turned curiously, as he heard it.
"What could they be to you, if you found them? They have forgotten you. In five years they have not sent you a message."
"No,—I know, Madam."
Even that did not hurt him. His face kindled slowly,—still turned to the fire, as if it were telling him some old story: looking to her at last, steadfast and manly, like a man who has healthy common-sense dominant in his head, and an unselfish love at work in his heart. Such a one is not far from the kingdom of heaven.
"It seems to me as if there might be a chance—yet. It's a long time. But Martha loved me, Madam. You don't know—I think I'll go, John. It's close here, 's I said. I'll meet you at the far bridge by dawn, and let you know."
"It is your only chance," said Soulé, roughly, as he followed him to the door.