frankness, gave him an enthusiastic account of her friend,
Hazeldine, the working man whom he had seen her speaking to, and
unconsciously reveled in her free conversation a great deal of the
life she led, a busy, earnest, self-denying life Brian could see.
When they reached the place of their afternoon's encounter, she
alluded merrily to what she called the "charge of umbrellas."

"Who would have thought, now, that in a few hours' time we should
have learned to know each other!" she exclaimed. "It has been
altogether the very oddest day, a sort of sandwich of good and bad,
two bits of the dry bread of persecution, put in between, you and
Mr. Osmond and my beautiful new Longfellow."

Brian could not help laughing at the simile, and was not a little
pleased to hear the reference to his book; but his amusement was
soon dispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that minute they
happened to pass an undertaker's cart which was standing at the
door of one of the houses; a coffin was born across the pavement in
front of them. Erica, with a quick exclamation, put her hand on
his arm and shrank back to make room for the bearers to pass.
Looking down at her, he saw that she was quite pale. The coffin
was carried into the house and they passed on.

"How I do hate seeing anything like that!" she exclaimed. Then
looking back and up to the windows of the house: "Poor people! I
wonder whether they are very sad. It seems to make all the world
dark when one comes across such things. Father thinks it is good
to be reminded of the end, that it makes one more eager to work,
but he doesn't even wish for anything after death, nor do any of
the best people I know. It is silly of me, but I never can bear to