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That letter of Miss Blagdon's, written some weeks after, telling of how the stricken man paced the echoing hallways at night crying, "I want her! I want her!" touches us like a great, strange sorrow that once pierced our hearts. But Robert Browning's nature was too strong to be subdued by grief.
He set about to restore Rudyard, as Krool prepared a bandage for the broken head. Down in the valley the artillery was at work. Lyddite and shrapnel and machine-guns were playing upon the top of the ridge above them, and the infantry Humphrey's and Blagdon's men were hurrying up the slope which Byng's pioneers had cleared, and now held.
If the young folks had not been so engaged in their own affairs they would have seen the Deacon furtively undoing his leathern pocket-book and slipping a greenback into the weeping Mrs. Blagdon's hand, as the only consolation he was able to give her. There were plenty of strong, willing hands to help carry Si from the caboose to the wagon.
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