Sons of an Ancient Glory Read Free

Johanna would giggle, too, if she could. But his big sister could neither hear nor speak; she merely gave forth with her funny, whispered laugh at Dulcie’s foolishness.
    Tom didn’t think Dulcie was funny at all. In truth, he didn’t even like their next-door neighbor very much. She treated him like a baby, teasing him and calling him “Little Tom,” even though he had cautioned her not to.
    Other than the bossy old Dulcie, most everyone else called him just plain “Tom” these days. He was four years old, after all, close on five, so it was time to be treated like the big boy he was. Aunt Nora and Uncle Evan were trying, although they often forgot. Johanna still treated him like a wee wane, but somehow his sister’s fussing didn’t bother him quite so much.
    Even so, she had provoked him more than a little in the park this afternoon. Too intent on finding the bunnies to pay Tom any heed, she hadn’t even come to his defense, as she usually did, when Dulcie began to tease and order him about. Finally, he’d wandered off by himself, in search of something more interesting than silly girls or baby rabbits.
    Then he had spotted the frog. The odd-looking creature had just been sitting there, on the bank of the pond. When Tom took a few steps toward him, he hadn’t moved a bit. It was almost as if he were glad for the company.
    Now, glancing again from the girls to the bullfrog, Tom stuffed his hands in the pockets of his breeches and started toward the pond. He walked with deliberate slowness, so the frog wouldn’t catch on that he was after him. Here and there he kicked a stone, pretending to have nothing more on his mind than taking a stroll through the park.
    He imagined himself an Indian brave, like the ones in some of Uncle Evan’s bedtime stories. A warrior, that’s what he would be today, a warrior on the way to the river, where he would launch his canoe and catch some fish for his family.
    Tom wasn’t quite sure whether Indian warriors actually went fishing or not. Glancing down over himself, he frowned at the boots Aunt Winnie had made him wear because of the mud in the park. One thing he was almost certain of: Indian warriors did
not
wear boots.

    Sitting up in bed, feeling even more restless and bored than usual, Nora Whittaker watched Evan’s Aunt Winnie attend to the household chores. Chores she should be doing herself.
    The older woman was scurrying about the room like a ballerina, humming cheerfully and whisking a feather duster over the furniture with fluid motions. Despite her pique at feeling so worthless, Nora had to smile. Aunt Winnie was petite and lithe in a rose-colored morning frock, her blond coiffure fresh and neat. Indeed, she looked for all the world as if she should be presiding over a Fifth Avenue tea instead of cleaning house.
    Evan’s aunt returned Nora’s smile, making a graceful pirouette as she gave the wardrobe a few hasty swipes. Standing off as if to admire her work, she nodded with satisfaction, then came back to the bed and sat down beside Nora.
    â€œYou’re just lying there seething because you can’t be up doing your own work,” she said, taking Nora’s hand. “I can tell.”
    Nora’s smile gave way to a sigh. “That’s the truth. I feel so—”
    â€œBored?”
    â€œThere’s that,” Nora admitted. “But mostly I’m feeling guilty. And entirely useless.”
    â€œBut you’re
not
useless, and you certainly have nothing to feel guilty about! Oh, I know you must be weary beyond imagining of just lying in, but taking care of your baby is much more important than housework, dear!”
    â€œAye, I know,” Nora agreed. “It’s just that I hadn’t counted on having to stay in bed all this time. It seems the next two months will drag on forever.”
    â€œBut they won’t,” Aunt Winnie said practically. “And in the