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A Soldier's Son: A Fiction and Literature Classic By Maude M. Butler! AAA+++
A Soldier's Son: A Fiction and Literature Classic By Maude M. Butler! AAA+++
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Excerpt:
As soon as the vessel left Cape Town the children began their happy, joyous preparations for the welcome home. Then, in the midst of them, when the triumphal arches were erected, awaiting only the final floral decorations, came a telegram from Gibraltar. Major Willmar had suffered a relapse at sea, and the doctors had not been able to save him. His body had been committed to the waves.
Again the children sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol."
Mother was strangely calm and quiet. "Carol must come to us. We must take the place to him of all he has lost," she said.
She wrote to the lady who had charge of him, asking her to take the boy to meet the vessel at Plymouth, in order that Colonel Mandeville might bring Carol home with him.
All the children, seven in number, were at the station when the express drew up. Edith and Gwendolin, two tall fair girls of twelve and thirteen years; Percy and Frank, eleven and ten; then three of the dearest little maidens, Sylvia four, Estelle three, and the sweet Rosebud, whom Father had never seen. She had come to cheer Mother's breaking heart in the dark days of the war, and was now two years old.
It was an unusual occurrence for an express train to stop at that quiet country station. The porters were on the alert to drag out the luggage as quickly as possible. A tall bronzed and bearded man sprang out of the train on the instant of stopping, so changed that even the elder children scarcely recognized him.
He looked at them with hungry eyes, as if he would take them all in his arms at once, had they been big enough to go round, then seized the smallest of all, the little snow-white maiden.
"Iz 'ou Daddy?" she asked.
As soon as the vessel left Cape Town the children began their happy, joyous preparations for the welcome home. Then, in the midst of them, when the triumphal arches were erected, awaiting only the final floral decorations, came a telegram from Gibraltar. Major Willmar had suffered a relapse at sea, and the doctors had not been able to save him. His body had been committed to the waves.
Again the children sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol."
Mother was strangely calm and quiet. "Carol must come to us. We must take the place to him of all he has lost," she said.
She wrote to the lady who had charge of him, asking her to take the boy to meet the vessel at Plymouth, in order that Colonel Mandeville might bring Carol home with him.
All the children, seven in number, were at the station when the express drew up. Edith and Gwendolin, two tall fair girls of twelve and thirteen years; Percy and Frank, eleven and ten; then three of the dearest little maidens, Sylvia four, Estelle three, and the sweet Rosebud, whom Father had never seen. She had come to cheer Mother's breaking heart in the dark days of the war, and was now two years old.
It was an unusual occurrence for an express train to stop at that quiet country station. The porters were on the alert to drag out the luggage as quickly as possible. A tall bronzed and bearded man sprang out of the train on the instant of stopping, so changed that even the elder children scarcely recognized him.
He looked at them with hungry eyes, as if he would take them all in his arms at once, had they been big enough to go round, then seized the smallest of all, the little snow-white maiden.
"Iz 'ou Daddy?" she asked.
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