Yet he knew better. Once she spoke out of the
haunting silence, her voice sounding strange, her eyes still fixed in
that same vacant stare ahead into the gloom.
"Isn't this Mercedes' pony? I--I thought she rode away on him herself?"
With the words the recollection recurred to him that she did not yet
know about that other tragedy. It was a hard task, but he met it
bravely. Quietly as he might, he told the sad story in so far as he
understood it--the love, the sacrifice, the suffering. As she listened
her head drooped ever lower, and he saw the glitter of tears falling
unchecked. He was glad she could cry; it was better than that dull,
dead stare. As he made an end, picturing the sorrowing Stutter
kneeling in his silent watch at the bedside, she looked gravely across
to him, the moisture clinging to the long lashes.
"It was better so--far better. I know how she felt, for she has told
me. God was merciful to her;" the soft voice broke into a sob; "for
me, there is no mercy.
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