remain in Eva's hands. And everything feminine and normal in her
rebelled. Emily knew she'd want to put away her own freshly
laundered linen, and smooth it, and pat it. She was that kind of
woman. She knew she'd want to do her own delightful haggling
with butcher and grocer. She knew she'd want to muss Jo's hair,
and sit on his knee, and even quarrel with him, if necessary,
without the awareness of three ever-present pairs of maiden eyes
and ears.

"No! No! We'd only be miserable. I know. Even if they didn't
object. And they would, Jo. Wouldn't they?"

His silence was miserable assent. Then, "But you do love me.
don't you, Emily?"

"I do, Jo. I love you--and love you--and love you. But, Jo,
I--can't."

"I know it, dear. I knew it all the time, really. I just
thought, maybe, somehow----"

The two sat staring for a moment into space, their hands clasped.

Then they both shut their eyes with a little shudder, as though
what they saw was terrible to look upon. Emily's hand, the tiny
hand that was so unexpectedly firm, tightened its hold on his,
and his crushed the absurd fingers until she winced with pain.

That was the beginning of the end, and they knew it.