it to strive for, to hope for, to live for. Andy was no philosopher.
He could not reason from any deep knowledge of human nature. His
life had been merely sensational, touching scarcely the confines of
interior thought. Now he felt that he was getting adrift, but could
not understand the why and the wherefore.

As the twilight deepened, his mental obscurity deepened also. He was
still sitting in front of his counter, when a form darkened his open
door. It was the postman, with a letter for Andy's wife. Then he
closed the door, saying in his thought, as he had said when closing
the shutters, "For the last time," and went back into the house with
the letter in his hand. It was sealed with black. Mrs. Lovell looked
frightened as she noticed this sign of death. The contents were soon
known. An only sister, a widow, had died suddenly, and this letter
announced the fact. She left three young children, two girls and a
boy. These, the letter stated, had been dispensed among the late
husband's relatives; and there was a sentence or two expressing a
regret that they should be separated from each other.

Mrs. Lovell was deeply afflicted by this news, and abandoned
herself, for a while, to excessive grief. Her husband had no
consolation to offer, and so remained, for the evening, silent and
thoughtful. Andy Lovell did not sleep well that night. Certain
things were suggested to his mind, and dwelt upon, in spite of many
efforts to thrust them aside. Mrs. Lovell was wakeful also, as was
evident to her husband from her occasional sighs, sobs, and restless
movements; but no words passed between them. Both rose earlier than
usual.

Had Andy Lovell forgotten that he opened his shop door, and put back