Lucy Crosby was dead. One moment she was of the quick, moving about the

house, glancing in at David, having Minnie in the kitchen pin and unpin

her veil; and the next she was still and infinitely mysterious, on her

white bed. She had fallen outside the door of David's room, and lay

there, her arms still full of fresh bath towels, and a fixed and intense

look in her eyes, as though, outside the door, she had come face to face

with a messenger who bore surprising news. Doctor Reynolds, running up

the stairs, found her there dead, and closed the door into David's room.

But David knew before they told him. He waited until they had placed her

on her bed, had closed her eyes and drawn a white coverlet over her, and

then he went in alone, and sat down beside her, and put a hand over her

chilling one.

"If you are still here, Lucy," he said, "and have not yet gone on, I

want you to carry this with you. We are all right, here. Everybody is

all right. You are not to worry."

After a time he went back to his room and got his prayer-book. He could

hear Harrison Miller's voice soothing Minnie in the lower hall, and

Reynolds at the telephone. He went back into the quiet chamber, and

opening the prayer-book, began to read aloud.

"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them

that slept--"

His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed.

He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room for

the awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and clean

curtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even praying, a

lonely yet indomitable old figure. When his friends came, elderly men

who creaked in and tried to reduce their robust voices to a decorous

whisper, he shook hands with them and made brief, courteous replies.

Then he lapsed into silence. They felt shut off and uncomfortable, and

creaked out again.

Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly in

and put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, saying

nothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath.

"I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear," he said.

He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that evening,

and on being helped down the stairs. The town, which had seemed inimical

for so long, appeared to him suddenly to be holding out friendly hands.

More than friendly hands. Loving, tender hands, offering service and

affection and old-time friendship. It moved about sedately, in

dark clothes, and came down the stairs red-eyed and using

pocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it surrounded him with love and loving

kindness.




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