“What did you come for?” Mrs. Gearson asked.
Editha’s face quivered and her knees shook. “I came—because—because George—” She could go no further.
“Yes,” the mother said, “he told me he had asked you to come if he got killed. You didn’t expect that, I suppose, when you sent him.”
“I would rather have died myself than done it!” Editha said, with more truth in her deep voice than she ordinarily found in it. “I tried to leave him free—”
“Yes, that letter of yours, that came back with his other things, left him free.”
Editha saw now where George’s irony came from.
“It was not to be read before—unless—until—I told him so,” she faltered.
“Of course, he wouldn’t read a letter of yours, under the circumstances, till he thought you wanted him to. Been sick?” the woman abruptly demanded.
“Very sick,” Editha said, with self-pity.
“Daughter’s life,” her father interposed, “was almost despaired of, at one time.”