I accepted the fate I'd summoned like the genie of a lamp. "Yes, Brian,
I'm here," I answered. And I went to him, and took possession of the
hand Mrs. Beckett had left free. "I never told you about my romance. It
was so short. And--and one doesn't put the most sacred things in
letters. I loved a man, and he loved me. We met in France before the
war, and lost each other.
"Afterward he came back to fight. A few days ago he fell--just at the
time when his parents had hurried over from America to see him. I--I
couldn't resist writing them a letter, though they were strangers to me.
I----"
"That's not a word I like to hear on your lips--'strangers'," Mr.
Beckett broke in, "even though you're speaking of the past. We're all
one family now. You don't mind my saying that, Brian, or taking it for
granted you'll consent--or calling you Brian, do you?"
"Mind!" echoed Brian, with his sweet, young smile. "How could I mind?
It's like something in a story. It's a sad story--because the hero's
gone out of it--no, he _hasn't_ gone, really! It only seems so, before
you stop to think. I've learned enough about death to learn that. And I
can tell by both your voices you'll be friends worth having."
"Oh, you _are_ a dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Beckett. "God is good to give
you and your sister to us in our dark hour. I feel as if Jimmy were here
with us. I do believe he is! I know he'd like me to tell you what he did
with your picture, and what we've done with it since, his father and I.
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