It's a pity we couldn't have got up a Sunday-school
picnic,--but then, of course, that wouldn't have done any good.
You can't fool a rainstorm. So long, Amos. Night, everybody. Night,
Courtney. As I was sayin' awhile ago, I used to go to school with
your pa when him an' me was little shavers,--up yonder at the old
Kennedy schoolhouse. Fifty odd years ago. Seems like yesterday.
How old did you say you was?"
"Twenty-eight, Mr. White."
"And your pa's been dead--how long did you say?"
"He died when I was twenty-two."
"Funny your ma didn't bring him out here and bury him 'longside his
father and all the rest of 'em up in the family burying-ground,"
was Mr. White's concluding observation as he ambled off down the
gravel walk to the front gate.
"I wish you'd brought your croix de guerre along with you, Mr.
Thane," said young Caleb, his eyes gleaming in the faint light
from the open door. "I guess I don't pronounce it as it ought to
be. I'm not much of a hand at French."
"You came pretty close to it," said Thane, with a smile. "You see,
Cale, it's the sort of thing one puts away in a safe place. That's
why I left it in New York. Mother likes to look at it occasionally.
Mothers are queer creatures, you know. They like to be reminded of
the good things their sons have done. It helps 'em to forget the
bad things, I suppose."
"You're always joking," pouted Rosabel, leaning forward, ardour
in her wide, young eyes.
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