Lizzie reached home and walked up the garden path. Mrs. Ford stood in the parlor as she entered, upright, pale, and rigid. Each read the other's countenance. Lizzie went towards her slowly and giddily. She must of course kiss her patroness. She took her listless hand and bent towards her stern lips. Habitually Mrs. Ford was the most undemonstrative of women. But as Lizzie looked closer into her face, she read the signs of a grief infinitely more potent than her own. The formal kiss gave way: the young girl leaned her head on the old woman's shoulder and burst into sobs. Mrs. Ford acknowledged those tears with a slow inclination of the head, full of a certain grim pathos: she put out her arms and pressed them closer to her heart.
At last Lizzie disengaged herself and sat down.
"I am going to him," said Mrs. Ford.
Lizzie's dizziness returned. Mrs. Ford was going,—and she, she?
"I am going to nurse him, and with God's help to save him."
"How did you hear?"
"I have a telegram from the surgeon of the regiment"; and Mrs. Ford held out a paper.
Lizzie took it and read: "Lieutenant Ford dangerously wounded in the action of yesterday. You had better come on."
"I should like to go myself," said Lizzie: "I think Jack would like to have me."
"Nonsense! A pretty place for a young girl! I am not going for sentiment; I am going for use."