“It was good of you to come so soon,” he said. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t have been here for the funeral. Our friends were magnificent. We were overwhelmed by the tide of sympathy. I think I might say that the whole country mourned with us. You would have appreciated it, as we did. It made one proud of America to see how she was revered; it made me personally ready to ask forgiveness for all my cheap outbursts of temper when I’ve thought the country was going wrong.”
“The papers on the other side were full of praises for her,” I remarked uncomfortably.
“I know,” returned Charles. “The world must be better than we have thought. I’d like to believe that the moral awakening in which she was a leader has stirred men and women everywhere to right the wrongs of humanity. But it will take more lives like hers to complete the work.”
“She interested a great many people in reform who wouldn’t have taken it up if it hadn’t been for her influence. And all of you are carrying on work along the same lines.” I had to say something, and I could think of nothing less inane.
“Yes,” Charlie answered, wrinkling his forehead; “we must go on as well as we can. But it’s like losing a pilot. She had genius.”
Margaret Longbow suddenly straightened herself and began to wipe her eyes delicately.
“Mother had strength for it,” she said in a broken voice; “she had wonderful energy.”
“But think what you have done—all of you!” I protested. “As a family, you are the most active people I know.”
“I can’t go on—now. I’m going away as soon as things are straightened out. I’m going to Italy to rest.” Margaret’s figure relaxed as suddenly as it had stiffened. She lay back against a pile of cushions with the inertness of utter fatigue.
“Margaret!” Charles exclaimed sharply. “What would mother have said?”