Duncan and the Allen girl
motored to Washington in a demonstration-car, and while Dunk was
absent, the yard of the garage resembled the premises about a
junkshop. On their return they bought the Johnson place, and Cora
quickly demonstrated the same furious enthusiasm for homemaking and
motherhood that she had for athletics and carburetors.
Three years passed, and two small boys crept about the yard behind
the white rail fence. Then--when Duncan and his wife were "making a
great go of matrimony" in typical Yankee fashion--came the tragedy
that took all the vim out of Cora, stole the ruddy glow from her
girlish features and made her middle-aged in a twelvemonth. In the
infantile-paralysis epidemic which passed over New England three
years ago the McBrides suffered the supreme sorrow--twice. Those
small boys died within two weeks of each other.
Duncan of course kept on with his work at the garage. He was quieter
and steadier than ever. But when we drove into the place to have a
carburetor adjusted or a rattle tightened, we saw only too plainly
that on his heart was a wound the scars of which would never heal.
As for Cora, she was rarely seen in the village.
Troubles rarely come singly. One afternoon this past August, Duncan
completed repairs on Doc Potter's runabout.
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