“Where are they?” asked his mother. “What happened?”
He opened his eyes slowly.
“I—am—tired—dead tired. I have not—slept. I’ll tell—you—morning.”
He nodded again, and the old woman shook him gently.
“Go to bed then. Your old bed, Jem. It’s as you left it, and it’s made and the sheets aired. It’s been ready for you ever since.”
He rose to his feet, and stood swaying to and fro. His mother opened a door in the wall, and taking the lamp lighted him up the steep wooden staircase to the room he knew so well. Then he took her in his arms in a feeble hug, and kissing her on the forehead sat down wearily on the bed.
The old woman returned to her kitchen, and falling upon her knees remained for some time in a state of grateful, pious ecstasy. When she arose she thought of those other women, and, snatching a shawl from its peg behind the door, ran up the deserted street with her tidings.
In a very short time the town was astir. Like a breath of hope the whisper flew from house to house. Doors closed for the night were thrown open, and wondering children questioned their weeping mothers. Blurred images of husbands and fathers long since given over for dead stood out clear and distinct, smiling with bright faces upon their dear ones.
At the cottage door two or three people had already collected, and others were coming up the street in an unwonted bustle.
They found their way barred by an old woman—a resolute old woman, her face still working with the great joy which had come into her old life, but who refused them admittance until her son had slept. Their thirst for news was uncontrollable, but with a swelling in her throat she realised that her share in Tetby’s Pride was safe.