“John Randolph!”
“Rege!”
The two men stood facing each other with hands held in a vice-like grasp, all unconscious of what was going on around them in the street.
“Where did you come from?”
“Where have you been?”
John laughed. “In and around Marlborough all the time, except when I went to New York for my degree.”
“And never let us hear a word from you all these years!”
“You forget, Rege, your father forbade me to hold any communication with Hollywood.”
Reginald’s face grew grave. “Poor father. Well he’s done with it all now.”
“You don’t mean that he is dead, Rege?”
“Yes – and little Nan.”
“Oh!” The exclamation was sharp with pain.
“I think she fretted for you, John. She just seemed to pine away. Every day we missed her about the same time, and they always found her in the same place, down by the green road. Then scarlet fever came. She never spoke of getting well – didn’t seem to want to. The night she died she put her arms around mother’s neck and whispered. “Tell Don me’ll be waitin’ at the gate.’ That was all.”
John wrung Reginald’s hand and turned away. Reginald looked after him with misty eyes. “I used to tell mother it would break his heart. I never saw any one so wrapped up in a child!”
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