respected the conventions. What she did was to put on a
white shirtwaist and a black skirt at seven o'clock the
morning after the funeral.

The store had been closed the day before. She entered it at
seven forty-five, as Aloysius was sweeping out with wet
sawdust and a languid broom. The extra force of holiday
clerks straggled in, uncertainly, at eight or after,
expecting an hour or two of undisciplined gossip. At eight-
ten Molly Brandeis walked briskly up to the plush photograph
album, whisked off its six-dollar price mark, and stuck
in its place a neatly printed card bearing these figures:
"To-day-- 79@!" The plush album went home in a farmer's
wagon that afternoon.



CHAPTER TWO

Right here there should be something said about Fanny
Brandeis. And yet, each time I turn to her I find her
mother plucking at my sleeve. There comes to my mind the
picture of Mrs. Brandeis turning down Norris Street at
quarter to eight every morning, her walk almost a march, so
firm and measured it was, her head high, her chin thrust
forward a little, as a fighter walks, but not pugnaciously;
her short gray skirt clearing the ground, her shoulders
almost consciously squared. Other Winnebago women were just
tying up their daughters' pigtails for school, or sweeping
the front porch, or watering the hanging baskets. Norris