darkness, in the long, motionless vigil which made up Touclé's evenings.
As they all turned their faces towards her, she said, "The cereus is
going to bloom tonight," and disappeared.

Marise welcomed this diversion. Ever since that absurd little gesture
about the photograph, she had felt thickening about her . . . what? What
you call "depression" (whatever that meant), the dull hooded apparition
that came blackly and laid its leaden hand on your heart. This news was
just the thing. It would change what was threatening to stand stagnant
and charge it with fresh running currents. She got up briskly to her
feet.

"Come on, children," she said. "I'll let you sit up beyond bed-time
tonight. Scatter quick, and put on your things. We'll all go down the
road to the Powers house and see the cereus in bloom."

The children ducked quickly out of the room, thudding along softly in
their felt slippers. Scramblings, chatterings, and stamping sounded back
from the front hall, as they put on their boots and wraps.

"Wouldn't you like to come, too?" she asked the men, rescuing them from
the rather high-and-dry position in which this unexpected incident had
left them. It was plainly, from their faces, as inexplicable as
unexpected. She explained, drawing a long, plain, black silk scarf
closely about her head and shoulders, "Why, yes, do come. It's an
occasion as uniquely Ashleyian as pelota is Basque. You, Mr. Marsh, with
your exhaustive inquiries into the habits and manners of Vermont
mountaineers, your data won't be complete unless you've seen Nelly
Powers' night-blooming cereus in its one hour of glory. Seriously, I
assure you, you won't encounter anything like it, anywhere else."