"They've _gone_!" breathed Sylvia. "They've gone away for good!"

Judith nodded, even her bold and unimaginative spirit somewhat
daunted by the ghostly silence of the house. Sylvia tiptoed to the
swinging-door and pushed it open. Yes, there was the pantry, like the
kitchen, in chaotic disorder, tissue paper and excelsior thick on the
floor, and entangled with it the indescribable jumble of worthless,
disconnected objects always tumbled together by a domestic crisis
like a fire or a removal--old gloves, whisk-brooms, hat-forms, lamps,
magazines, tarnished desk-fittings. The sight was so eloquent of panic
haste that Sylvia let the door swing shut, and ran back into the
kitchen.

Judith was pointing silently to a big paper bag on the shelf. It had
been tossed there with some violence evidently, for the paper had
burst and the contents had cascaded out on the shelf and on the
floor--the rich, be-raisined cookies which Camilla was to have taken
to the picnic. Sylvia felt the tears stinging her eyelids, and pulled
Judith out of the tragic house. They stood for a moment in the yard,
beside a bed of flowering crocuses, brilliant in the sun. The forsaken
house looked down severely at them from its blank windows. Judith was
almost instantly relieved of mental tension by the outdoor air, and
stooped down unconcernedly to tie her shoe. She broke the lacing and
had to sit down, take it out of the shoe, tie it, and put it back
again. The operation took some time, during which Sylvia stood still,
her mind whirling.

For the first time in her steadily forward-going life there was a
sharp, irrevocable break. Something which had been yesterday was now