Ah, well, we
were happy."
When left alone, it was Helen's turn to say, "Now your thoughts
are wool-gathering. You don't see the fire when you look at it
that way."
"No, I suppose not," replied Martine. "I'll be more frank than
you. Your mother's words, 'We were happy,' left an echo in my
mind. How experience varies! It is pleasant to think that there
are many perfectly normal, happy lives like those of your father
and mother."
"That's one thing I like in you, Hobart. You are so perfectly
willing that others should be happy."
"Helen, I agree with your father. Your laugh WAS music, the
sweetest I ever heard. I'm more than willing that you should be
happy. Why should you not be? I have always felt that what he said
was true--what he said about the right to laugh after sorrow--but
it never seemed so true before. Who could wish to leave blighting
sorrow after him? Who could sing in heaven if he knew that he had
left tears which could not be dried on earth?"
"You couldn't," she replied with bowed head.
"Nor you, either; nor the brave man who died, to whom I only do
justice in believing that he would only be happier could he hear
your laugh.
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