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Updated: May 18, 2025
The illustration at which I opened showed Faithful going up to Heaven from the fire of Vanity Fair like a woodcock that has just been flushed. Everything in the room was exquisitely neat, and I knew that that was Peter and not the Widow Summermatter. On a peg behind the door hung his much-mended coat, and sticking out of a pocket I recognized a sheaf of my own letters.
He made some halting inquiries of the station people, and a cab-driver outside finally directed him to the place he sought the cottage of the Widow Summermatter, where resided an English intern, one Peter Pienaar. The porter Joseph Zimmer had had a long and roundabout journey. A fortnight before he had worn the uniform of a British major-general.
God be with you, young man, and be kind to that wounded one. When the Widow Summermatter had departed I sat down in Peter's arm-chair and took stock of the place. It was quiet and simple and homely, and through the window came the gleam of snow on the diamond hills.
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