Eunice. Margaret M. Robertson
was very tired, the doctor knew by the wavering colour on her cheek; and he shrank from the thought of telling her something which he wished no one but himself to tell. Afterwards, when he had spoken, he said to himself that he need not have been so much afraid.
“Eunice, I heard from my brother Justin lately. He is coming home. He is on his way. He may be here any day.”
“Is he coming home at last? I am glad—for you especially. All his friends will be glad to see him again.”
She spoke quietly and cordially, just as any of his friends might have spoken. Then there were a few more words, and then he went away.
Eunice waited till she heard the latch of the gate fall, and waited still till the sounds of his wheels died away in the distance. Then she rose and took her last loaves from the oven, and carried them away to their own place. Then she went slowly upstairs and laid herself down on her bed to rest. And there Fidelia found her sleeping, with the traces of tears on her face, but with God’s own peace resting upon it also.
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