It seemed,
after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the
sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right,
over the close-cropped grass.
"Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?"
Ambrosch asked. "We've had them framed and they're hung up in the parlor.
She was so glad to get them. I don't believe I ever saw her so pleased
about anything." There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that
made me wish I had given more occasion for it.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, you know, was very much loved
by all of us. She was a beautiful girl."
"Oh, we know!" They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I
should think it necessary to mention this. "Everybody liked her, did n't
they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people."
"Sometimes," I ventured, "it does n't occur to boys that their mother was
ever young and pretty."
"Oh, we know!" they said again, warmly. "She's not very old now," Ambrosch
added. "Not much older than you."
"Well," I said, "if you were n't nice to her, I think I'd take a club and
go for the whole lot of you. I could n't stand it if you boys were
inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked
after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I
know there's nobody like her.
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