Part 17 (2/2)

”Sit down,” she invited.

He took a chair opposite a cheap picture of a youth in uniform. A flag of coa.r.s.e material was pinned above this portrait, and underneath was a roughly carved bracket on which was a gla.s.s filled with goldenrod.

”You lived here with your mother,” she said musingly, ”and she was taken. I lived here with my son, and--he was taken.”

”Oh!” said David. ”I did not know--was he--”

His eyes sought the picture on the wall.

”Yes,” she replied, answering his unspoken question, as she lifted her eyes to her little shrine, ”he enlisted and went to the Philippines.

He died there of fever more than a year ago.”

David was silent. His brown, boyish hand shaded his eyes. It had been his fault that he had not heard of this old woman and the loss of her son. He had shrunk from all knowledge and mention of this little home and its inmates. The country folk had recognized and respected his reticence, which to people near the soil seems natural. This had been the only issue in his life that he had dodged, and he was bitterly repenting his negligence. In memory of his mother, he should have helped the lonely old woman.

”You were left a poor, helpless boy,” she continued, ”and I am left a poor, helpless old woman. The very young and the very old meet in their helplessness, yet there is hope for the one--nothing for the other.”

”Yes, memories,” he suggested softly, ”and the pride you feel in his having died as he did.”

”There is that,” she acknowledged with a sigh, ”and if only I could live on here in this little place where we have been so happy! But I must leave it.”

”Why?” asked David quickly.

”After my Carl died, things began to happen. When once they do that, there is no stopping. The bank at the Corners failed, and I lost my savings. The turkeys wandered away, the cow died, and now there's the mortgage. It's due to-morrow, and then--the man that holds it will wait no longer. So it is the poorhouse, which I have always dreaded.”

David's head lifted, and his eyes shone radiantly as he looked into the tired, hopeless eyes.

”Your mortgage will be paid to-morrow, and--Don't you draw a pension for your son?”

She looked at him in a dazed way.

”No, there is no pension--I--”

”Judge Thorne will get you one,” he said optimistically, as he rose, ready for action, ”and how much is the mortgage?”

”Three hundred dollars,” she said despairingly.

”Almost as much as the place is worth. Who holds the mortgage?”

”Deacon p.r.i.c.kley.”

”You see,” said David, trying to speak casually, ”I have three hundred dollars lying idle for which I have no use. I'll ride to town now and have the Judge see that the place is clear to you, and he will get you a pension, twelve dollars a month.”

The worn, seamed face lifted to his was transfigured by its look of beat.i.tude.

”You mustn't,” she implored. ”I didn't know about the pension. That will keep me, and I can find another little place somewhere. But the money you offer--no! I have heard how you have been saving to go through school.”

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