" The pitiful nod and freshened weeping told her she was
right. "Nay, lass. It was not the hand of God that killed him, and
many other good men besides. It is not the Creator who so brutalizes
lives and emotions. It is men.
"
And with this all her maternal softness faded, as her eyes stared hard
and dry into some galling distance of thought and memory. Her arms
fell away from her daughter's shoulders, and she unconsciously ground
her teeth.
Mary, who had seen none of this, raised her head and wiped the tears
from her eyes, feeling something like a pang of conscience. "I'm
sorry. . . Mother." She could not help blushing at the word. "I've
been selfish, thinking only of my own sorrow. Won't you tell me
something of yourself? It must have been hard for you, surely."
The woman's gaze returned.
"Ah, life is hard, girl. Someday I'll speak of the roads that brought
me here, but not now." She rose as if to say no more, then turned to
the girl, so young, with the only words of comfort she could find. But
at that they were not gentle, were not the words of hope.
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