long, dreamy swing, its mingling of joy with foreboding of
sadness. The tears streamed down her cheeks. ``He's gone,'' she
said miserably. She rose and went through the crowd, stumbling
against people, making the homeward journey by instinct alone.
She seemed to be walking in her sleep. She entered the shop--it
was crowded with customers, and her father, her mother and
August were bustling about behind the counters. ``Here, tie this
up,'' said her father, thrusting into her hands a sheet of
wrapping paper on which were piled a chicken, some sausages, a
bottle of olives and a can of cherries. She laid the paper on
the counter and went on through the parlor and up the stairs to
her plain, neat, little bedroom. She threw herself on the bed,
face downward. She fell at once into a deep sleep. When she
awoke it was beginning to dawn. She remembered and began to
moan. ``He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!'' she repeated over
and over again. And she lay there, sobbing and calling to him.

When she faced the family there were black circles around her
eyes. They were the eyes of a woman grown, and they looked out
upon the world with sorrow in them for the first time.



VII

LOVE IN SEVERAL ASPECTS

It was not long before the community was talking of the change in
Hilda, the abrupt change to a gentle, serious, silent woman, the
sparkle gone from her eyes, pathos there in its stead. But not