She had come to meet him with their baby in her arms. That was strange;
it was not Sallie, it was their first-born, the boy with his mother's
eyes who had blessed their home for only a few short months and then
been laid to rest in the churchyard on the hill. The other little tots
were with her, three of them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were
all smiling and holding out their hands to him in invitation. But
Sallie, where was Sallie? Once more Martha called his name. At the sound
of her voice all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony's heart.
"Coming, Mother, coming," he called happily, and the smile upon Martha's
face was reflected on his own.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the storm had passed in the
night. Something else had passed, too--the soul of an aged farmer. It
was not until the next day they found him, still sitting in the lounging
chair by the stove in which only a small heap of charred ashes remained.
They looked upon that serenely smiling face, then from one to another,
and sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped forward and
with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, cold hand of old Tony, the
letter for which he had watched through long and weary years, the letter
that had come too late.
Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could not see, as Tony saw, the
woman who lay dying in the great hospital down in the city.
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