Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained to pour out upon
Derry the wealth of her womanly sympathy. It was perhaps the knowledge
of this as well as his devotion to her children which brought him often
to her door.

Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in front of the fire with
a child on each side of her. She was in white, her dark hair in a
simple shining knot, a little pearl heart which had been Captain
Morgan's parting gift, her only ornament.

"Go on with your story," he said, as he came in. "I just want to
listen and do nothing."

She glanced up at him. He looked tired, unlike himself, depressed.

"Anything the matter?"

"Father isn't well. Dr. McKenzie has taken the case. Richards has
gone to the front. Bronson will call me if there are any unfavorable
developments."

Margaret-Mary, curled up like a kitten in the curve of Cousin Derry's
arm, was exploring his vest pocket. She found two very small squares
of Washington taffy wrapped in wax paper, one for herself and one for
Teddy. It was Derry's war-time offering. No other candies were
permitted by Margaret's patriotism. Her children ate molasses on their
bread, maple sugar on their cereal. Her soldier was in France, and
there were other soldiers, not one of whom should suffer because of the
wanton waste of food by the people who stayed softly at home.