Why, my heart would grow big with thanksgiving that I had
brought such an one into the world and reared him. I--What would I do!
I couldn't tell him he might go,--no,--but I'd just take him in my
arms and bless him and love him a thousand times more for it, so he
could go away with that warm feeling all about his heart; and
then--I'd just pray and hope the war might end soon and that he might
come back to me rewarded, and--and--still good."

"That's it. If he would,--I don't distrust my son,--but there are
always things to tempt, and if--if he were changed in that way, or if
he never came back,--I would die."

"I know. We can't help thinking about ourselves and how we are
left--or how we feel--" Mary hesitated and was loath to go on with
that train of thought, but her friend caught her meaning and rose in
silence and paced the room a moment, then returned.

"It is easy to talk in that way when one has not lost," she said.

"I know it seems so, but it is not easy, Hester Craigmile. It is
hard--so hard that I came near staying at home this morning. It seemed
as if I could not--could not--"

"Yes, what I said was bitter, and it wasn't honest. You were good to
come to me--and what you have said is true. It has helped me; I think
it will help me."

"Then good-by. I'll go now, but I'll come again soon." She left the
shadow sitting there with the basket of fruit and flowers at her side
unnoticed and forgotten, and stepped quietly out of the darkened room
into the sunlight and fresh air.

"I do wish I could induce her to go out a little--or open up her
house. I wish--" Mary Ballard said no more, but shut her lips tightly
on her thoughts, untied the mare, and drove slowly away.

Hester Craigmile stood for a moment gazing on the picture of her
little sons, then for an hour or more wandered up and down over her
spacious home, going from room to room, mechanically arranging and
rearranging the chairs and small articles on the mantels and tables.
Nothing was out of place. No dust or disorder anywhere, and there was
the pity of it. If only a boy's cap could be found lying about, or
books left carelessly where they ought not to be! One closed door she
passed again and again. Once she laid her hand on the knob, but passed
on, leaving it still unopened. At last she turned, and, walking
swiftly down the long hall, entered the room.

There the blinds were closed and the curtains drawn, and everything
set in as perfect order as