John, your mother
would mother any miserable neglected child. She made me cry. My anger
melted away this afternoon as I watched her. I forgave her everything."
"O my darling! My darling Jane!"
"I wanted to kiss her, and tell her so."
After this confession it seemed easier for John to tell his wife that he
must close the mill in the morning. They were sitting together on the
hearth. Dinner was over and the room was very still. John was smoking a
cigar whose odor Jane liked, and her head leaned against his shoulder,
and now and then they said a low, loving word, and now and then he
kissed her.
"John," she said finally, "I had a letter from Aunt Harlow today. She is
in trouble."
"I am sorry for it."
"Her only child has been killed in a skirmish with the Afghans--killed
in a lonely pass of the mountains and buried there. It happened a little
while since and his comrades had forgotten where his grave was. The man
who slew him, pointed it out. He had been buried in his uniform, and my
uncle received his ring and purse and a scarf-pin he bought for a
parting present the day he sailed for India.
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