Answers to her letters arrived duly. They were not long; but they were
conventionally sympathetic.
One daughter wrote: "Morris took you away from us to place you with
friends whom he thought would take good care of you; if you are satisfied
to stay with them, I think you will be better off than with me. Business
is dull, and Peter thinks he has enough on his hands."
The other wrote: "I am glad you are among such kind friends. If Miss
Pomeroy thinks she owes you anything, now is her time to repay it. But
she could pay your board with me as well as with strangers, and you could
help me with the children. I am glad you can be submissive, and that you
are in a pleasanter frame of mind. Henry sends love, and says you never
shall want a home while he has a roof over his own head."
The mother sighed over both letters. They both left so much unsaid. They
were wrapped up in their husbands and children.
"I hope their children will love them when they are old," was the only
remark she made about the letters.
"I am your child, too," said Marjorie. "Won't you take me instead--no,
not instead of Morris, but _with_ him?"
In April Will came home. He spent a night in Maple Street, and almost
satisfied the mother's hungry heart with the comfort he gave her.
Marjorie listened with tears. She went away by herself to open the tiny
box that Will placed in her hand. Kissing the ring with loving and
reverent lips, she slipped it on the finger that Morris would have
chosen, the finger on which Linnet wore her wedding ring.
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