“Twenty-three!” said Mrs. Bolton, as she carefully separated the young columbines into single plants. “Twenty-three years since they brought him home.”

Connie’s heart gave a lurch, at the terrible finality of it. “Brought him home!”

“Why did he get killed, do you think?” she asked. “He was happy with you?”

It was a woman’s question to a woman. Mrs. Bolton put aside a strand of hair from her face, with the back of her hand.