Nearly fifteen years! It was a long, long time; and never a word from
the truant since the day she had left the village. Martha had waited, at
first impatiently, then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic
hopefulness that was more than half assumed. It was she who had insisted
that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years,
every evening, rain or shine, the same little scene was enacted in the
village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to
report.
"No letter to-night, mother."
"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh
and clasp her hands in her lap.
Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for
the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and
together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God to
keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left,
four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little
angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very
short space of time.
Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world;
for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest
in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely,
some word would have come from her.
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