When he
returned they would be kinder to him.
"Poor old Abner!" said Tennelly, thoughtfully. "Who would have thought
it! Carrying medicine to an old bedridden crone! And was going to stick
to his job even when his mother was dying! He's got some stuff in him,
after all, if he hasn't much sense!"
Courtland was led to go on talking about the old woman, picturing in a
few words the room where she lay, the pitifully few comforts, the inch
of candle, the tea without sugar or milk, the butterless toast! He told
it quite simply, utterly unaware, that he had told how he had made the
toast. They listened without comment as to one who had been set apart to
a duty undesirable but greatly to be admired. They listened as to one
who had passed through a great experience like being shut up in a mine
for days, or passing unharmed through a polar expedition or a lonely
desert wandering.
Afterward he spoke again about the child, telling briefly how he was
killed. He barely mentioned the sister, and he told nothing whatever of
his own part in it all. They looked at him curiously, as if they would
read between the lines, for they saw he was deeply stirred, but they
asked nothing. Presently they all fell to studying, Courtland with the
rest, for the morrow's work was important.
They made him stay on the couch and swung the light around where he
could see. They broke into song or jokes now and then as was their wont,
but over it all was a hush and a quiet sympathy that each one felt, and
none more deeply than Courtland.
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