eyes. An obscure spiritual crisis was going on.

Should she weep like the servants? Or should she bear up and
trust in the consoler Time? Was the death of a man so terrible
after all? As she invited herself to apathy there were steps on
the gravel, and Rickie Elliot burst in. He was splashed with mud,
his breath was gone, and his hair fell wildly over his meagre
face. She thought, "These are the people who are left alive!"
>From the bottom of her soul she hated him.

"I came to see what you're doing," he cried.

"Resting."

He knelt beside her, and she said, "Would you please go away?"

"Yes, dear Agnes, of course; but I must see first that you mind."
Her breath caught. Her eves moved to the treads, going outwards,
so firmly, so irretrievably.

He panted, "It's the worst thing that can ever happen to you in
all your life, and you've got to mind it you've got to mind it.
They'll come saying, 'Bear up trust to time.' No, no; they're
wrong. Mind it."

Through all her misery she knew that this boy was greater than
they supposed. He rose to his feet, and with intense conviction
cried: "But I know--I understand. It's your death as well as his.
He's gone, Agnes, and his arms will never hold you again. In
God's name, mind such a thing, and don't sit fencing with your