And he could make beautiful poetry," she would tell
them, reading over and over with tear-blinded eyes some scraps of
verse she had found among the boy's possessions. But most of all she
talked of Sam's gladness in getting home, and how strange it was he
had taken that notion to clean that dreadful pistol. No wonder Lydia
and her sisters kept to themselves, and wandered, little scared,
flitting creatures, through the silent house, or out into the garden,
yellowing now and gorgeous in the September heats and chills.
Dr. Lavendar came in at tea-time, as he had lately made a point of
doing, and sat down beside Mrs. Wright in Sam's chair.
"Samuel," said he, when supper was over and the little girls had
slipped away; "you must comfort your father. Nobody else can."
The senior warden drew in his breath with a start.
"He blames himself, Samuel."
"Blames himself! What reason has _he_ got to blame himself? It was my
fault."
"Oh, my dear," said the poor mother, "you couldn't tell that he was
going to clean your pistol."
Samuel Wright looked heavily over at Dr. Lavendar.
"Well," said the old minister, "he gave Sam the money to go away. I
suppose that's on his mind, for one thing. He may think something went
wrong, you know."
"Oh," broke in the mother, beginning to cry, "he Was so glad to get
home; he said to me the night he got back, 'Mother, I just had to come
home to you and father; I couldn't stay away any longer.
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