That Christmas season following her husband's death was
a ghastly time, and yet a grimly wonderful one, for it
applied the acid test to Molly Brandeis and showed her up
pure gold.

The first week in January she, with Sadie and Pearl, the two
clerks, and Aloysius, the boy, took inventory. It was a
terrifying thing, that process of casting up accounts. It
showed with such starkness how hideously the Brandeis ledger
sagged on the wrong side. The three women and the boy
worked with a sort of dogged cheerfulness at it, counting,
marking, dusting, washing. They found shelves full of
forgotten stock, dust-covered and profitless. They found
many articles of what is known as hard stock, akin to the
plush album; glass and plated condiment casters for the
dining table, in a day when individual salts and separate
vinegar cruets were already the thing; lamps with straight
wicks when round wicks were in demand.

They scoured shelves, removed the grime of years from boxes,
washed whole battalions of chamber sets, bathed piles of
plates, and bins of cups and saucers. It was a dirty, back-
breaking job, that ruined the finger nails, tried the
disposition, and caked the throat with dust. Besides, the
store was stove-heated and, near the front door,
uncomfortably cold. The women wore little shoulder shawls
pinned over their waists, for warmth, and all four,
including Aloysius, sniffled for weeks afterward.
That inventory developed a new, grim line around Mrs.
Brandeis' mouth, and carved another at the corner of each