“Yes, when we are in the right.”
They sat for a while in silence, looking into the fire, Catherine’s head against Miss Carmagee’s shoulder. Above, in the nursery, Jack Murchison was trying his new knife on the rail of a bedroom chair. He had crept out of bed, rummaged up some matches, and lit the gas. The boy had no eyes for the empty cot in the far corner of the room. He had not yet grasped what the loss of a life in the home meant.
“I want you to promise me something, dear.”
Miss Carmagee’s hand touched the mother’s hair.
“Yes?”
“I want you to tell me frankly—about the money.”
Catherine looked up into the benign, white face.
“You mean—?”
“I mean, dear, that there is a lot of dusting and polishing to be done before the lawyers allow people to step into their own shoes. I have a pair that I could lend you for a year or so.”
Catherine smiled at the simile, despite the occasion. Miss Carmagee’s shoes were as large and generous as her heart.