The captain put his arm about her and gently patted her shoulder.
“There, there, Mother,” he said, gently, “don't let that part of it fret you.”
“But, Zelotes,” tearfully, “I don't understand. It would have been such a great thing for Albert.”
“Would it? Well, maybe. Anyhow, there's no use worryin' about it now. It's done with--ended and done with . . . same as a good many other plans that's been made in the world.”
“Zelotes, don't speak like that, dear, so discouraged. It makes me feel worse than ever to hear you. And--and he wouldn't want you to, I'm sure.”
“Wouldn't he? No, I cal'late you're right, Mother. We'll try not to.”
Other letters came, including one from Helen. It was not long. Mrs. Snow was a little inclined to feel hurt at its brevity. Her husband, however, did not share this feeling.
“Have you read it carefully, Mother?” he asked.
“Of course I have, Zelotes. What do you mean?”
“I mean--well, I tell you, Mother, I've read it three time. The first time I was like you; seemed to me as good a friend of Al and of us as Helen Kendall ought to have written more than that. The second time I read it I begun to wonder if--if--”
“Oh, nothin', Mother, nothin'. She says she's comin' to see us just as soon as she can get away for a day or two. She'll come, and when she does I cal'late both you and I are goin' to be satisfied.”
“But why didn't she WRITE more, Zelotes? That's what I can't understand.”
Captain Zelotes tugged at his beard reflectively. “When I wrote Fosdick the other day,” he said, “I couldn't write more than a couple of pages. I was too upset to do it. I couldn't, that's all.”
“I know. And Helen's always . . . But there, Mother, don't you worry about Helen Kendall. I've known her since she was born, pretty nigh, and _I_ tell you she's all RIGHT.”
Fosdick, in his letter, had asked for particulars concerning Albert's death. Those particulars were slow in coming. Captain Zelotes wrote at once to the War Department, but received little satisfaction. The Department would inform him as soon as it obtained the information. The name of Sergeant Albert Speranza had been cabled as one of a list of fatalities, that was all.
“And to think,” as Rachel Ellis put it, “that we never knew that he'd been made a sergeant until after he was gone. He never had time to write it, I expect likely, poor boy.”