Atlantic Narratives

quinine I've taken that I can't write to-night. By to-morrow I shall probably be rid of this beastly cold. I want to tell you about a book

back in its envelope. If the cold were 'beastly,' perhaps he might remem

e the next da

ar to-morrow,

ly busy,' sa

raid he

urday morning, but he brought her no

k in a half

he curb. He handed her a telegram. It was from Stephen's landl

o her and told her-very gently. She had the feeling that it was her mother's sorrow. Her mother's dry, hard sobs and bowed figure brought the tears to her

o Stephen's, mother. I

face was pitifully pinched, almost old

ted to go back and kis

ouse painted light gray, with a gable back and front, and a narrow porch

ng sister-a slip of a thing but a capable housekeeper. Her eyes were swolle

had gone to New York, and that he would bring Stephen home. Eunic

didn't know it co

on the ground and then wondered that she should care. That was how it was the next two days:

y came home from the cemetery, E

lie down a w

answer as she turne

n the sky as they had left the cemetery. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Her heart was no longer numb. It was waking to its misery. She la

out a book I've just r

n, Stephe

her came up the stairs and stopped outside her door. She buried her face in the pillow. Her mo

and tea, Eunice. You mus

She set the tray down by her in the

o very tired. As she put the cup down her eyes

't let me see it! Oh, don'

to-morrow while you are at school. I meant to

was going to take it away. She clasped her hands tightly about her drawn-up knees and stared at the box with hot, miserable eyes. Of course it

had said, when the last nail was driven in a

e the things to go into the box very likely would be pink. He had laughed and kissed her

e jolly to have nice linen. They would probably be short on silver at first, but good linen made you feel respectable. He remembered his mother taking so much pride in what had been left of hers. For a moment th

ear it, oh

d three days before her wedding, and even Milly Petersen, who had been engaged for five years when the man asked to be released because he wanted to marry the girl who had recently moved to Milly's street. These girls had lived; they had

corn. It was grotesque standing in your friend's parlor with clenched hands, as it were, and compressed lips, saying, 'Don't mind me, please. I'm bearing it.' If one w

e had written, 'I have to kick a few Law Journals

ng, but she had always thought that Stephen's joyfulness would prove infectious. Suppose, now, without Stephen she should make the experiment of being happy. It would b

Glory-Box was a piece. She had wanted it taken away because it was a thing so filled with pain that she could not bear to have it about. If-Eunice got up in her excitement and walked up and down the room-if the Glory-Box could become a box again, just a box covered with cretonne, and the things in it become things, then a great piece of misery would disappear.

ed, her eyes very bright. She felt as she did

d brought on that day not quite a week ago. She unfolded it and touched it. 'This isn't-S

ded with tears. 'It's a lovely shade. Pink is pretty with dark hair.' Her quiverin

m. Probably I shall never be able to use them, but I'll keep looking until I get accustomed to seeing them.

iding looking at her. At the table she glanced up. Eunice's face was white and haggard, but her eyes, strangely big, were

to get used to it. I'm trying to get used to

ppy. At the end of the day, however, Eunice let herself softly into the house, too wretched to want to meet her mother. She carried to her room the letters of condolence that were on the dining-room table. She re

, 'I can't look at the thin

r she startled her mother by coming into her room dressed in the suit and hat that w

are you go

er been to see her since she started h

'You're foolish to go and see all her wedding prese

stand it. I shan't mind calling there afte

d you. But I suppose you know your-your own bus

lendid head towering above the other men as he joined in the toasts-Stephen had told her they always made toasts at these dinners; she could hear his laugh, his hearty boyish laugh. And those other days in early spring, when a hurdy-gurdy would play 'Turkey in the Straw,' and she could see Stephen pitching his Law Journals about, exulting in the glorious fact that he was al

n, I'm glad, just becaus

n. They had agreed at the beginning not to do that often, but there was bitterness in her mother's face and bitterness on occasion in her words. 'I've got used to seeing your