"I appreciated your sending me that postcard," he said.
"Well, I thought you'd like to see the new monument to General Sherman. I knew it was unveiled while you were away, and seeing that you took so much interest in it. . . ." Her voice died away with a note of sadness. The personal touch had filled them both with a sense of constraint, and in silence he helped her across the street, seizing her elbow as if it were a pump-handle.
Safely on the opposite side, he said, "I was sorry to hear of the illness of your son. I hope he's better by now."
Emma sighed. "No . . . he's not much better. You see, he gave up his health in Africa working among the natives." She sighed again. "I doubt if he'll ever be well again. He's such a good boy, too."
"Yes, I always heard that."
"Of course, he may not live. We have to face things, Mr. Slade. If God sees fit to take him, who am I to be bitter and complain? But it isn't easy . . . to have your only son. . . ." She began to cry, and it occurred to Moses Slade that she seemed to crumple and grow softly feminine in a way he had not thought possible in a woman of such character. He had never had any children of his own. He felt that she needed comforting, but for once words seemed of no use to him—the words which always flowed from him in an easy torrent.
"You'll forgive me, Mr. Slade, if I give way . . . but it's gone on for weeks now. Sometimes I wonder that the poor boy has any strength left."
"I understand, Mrs. Downes," he said, in a strange, soft voice.
