teased laugh. She rearranged the lock he had blown across her forehead. His
larger help she needed, but he had seldom known how to pet her in little
ways.

"I think you ought to let me read it to you," she said. "There is nothing
so difficult as telling the truth, even about one's self, and when it's
another person"--

"That's what I claim; she is the only one who can tell it."

"This is a case of first aid to the injured," she sighed. "I may not be a
surgeon, but I must do what I can for my son."

Then there was silence; the valley grew dimmer, the sky nearer and more
intense.

"Yes, the night forgives the day," after a while she said; "it even
forgets. And we forget what we were, and what we did, when we were young.
What is the use of growing old if we can't learn to forgive?" she vaguely
pleaded; and suddenly she began to weep.

The rattle of a miner's cart broke in upon them; it stopped at the gate.
Mr. Thorne half rose and looked out; a man was hurrying up the walk. He
waved with his cane for him to stop where he was. Messengers at this hour
were usually bearers of bad news, and he did not choose that his wife
should know all the troubles of the mines.

The two men conversed together at the gate; then Mr. Thorne returned to
explain.