III.

Thereafter a blank of days in which events must have occurred but to
which memory brought no lamp until the faint crunch as the coffin
touched the earth seven feet down....

Multitudinous papers after that. Wearying, sickening masses of
documents; interminable writing of signature; interminable making of
lists. And then the word LOT. "Lot I," "Lot 2," "Lot 50," "Lot 200"--a
hammerlike word to thump the brain at night, frightening sleep,
producing grotesque nightmares, as "Lot 12, a polished oak coffin,
finished plain, brass Handles."

No! No! That was not to be sold!--leaden hands holding her down;
stifling hands at her mouth to stay her shouting "Stop!"

Then sudden consciousness--only a dream! Bolt upright in bed staring
into the darkness. A dream? How much of it a dream? Was it all a
dream? The fevered brain would fetch her from her bed, groping to
Dad's room, striking a match--no familiar form upon the bed; a big
white ticket--"Lot 56."

Back to the hot, crumpled couch, there, tossing, to lie attempting a
grasp, a realisation of what it all meant....



IV.