The Brimming Cup

"The lilacs will begin to swell soon," said Aunt Hetty.

"I saw some pussy-willows out, today," answered Elly.

The old woman and the little girl lifted their heads, threw them back,

and looked up long into the sky, purely, palely high above them.

"It's quite a sightly place to live, Crittenden's is," said Aunt Hetty.

Elly said nothing, it being inconceivable to her that she could live

anywhere else.

"Well, good-bye," said Aunt Hetty. It did not occur to her to kiss the

little girl. It did not occur to Elly to want a kiss. They squeezed

their hands together a little bit more, and then Elly went down the

road, walking very carefully.

Why did she walk so carefully, she wondered? She felt as though she were

carrying a cup, full up to the brim of something. And she mustn't let it

spill. What was it so full of? Aunt Hetty's peacefulness, maybe.

Or maybe just because it was beginning to get twilight. That always made

you feel as though something was being poured softly into you, that you

mustn't spill. She was glad the side-road was so grass-grown. You could

walk on it, so still, like this, and never make a sound.

She thought again of Father and wished he would come home. She liked

Father. He was solid. He was solid like that solid earth she liked so

much to walk on. It was just such a comfort to feel him. Father was like

the solid ground and Mother was like the floaty clouds. Why, yes, they

were every way like what she had been thinking about. . . . Father was

the warm sun on the outside, and Mother was the cool wind on the inside.

Father was the end that was tied tight and firm so you knew you

couldn't lose it, and Mother was the end that streamed out like flags in

the wind. But they weren't either of them like that slinky, swirly

water, licking at you, in such a hurry to get on past you and get what

it was scrambling to get, whatever that was.

Well, of all things! There was old Mr. Welles, coming towards her. He

must be out taking a walk too. How slowly he went! And kept looking up

the way she and Aunt Hetty had, at the sky and the mountains. He was

quite close now. Why . . . why, he didn't know she was there. He had gone

right by her and never even saw her and yet had been so close she could

see his face plainly. He must have been looking very hard at the

mountains. But it wasn't hard the way he was looking, it was soft. How

soft his face had looked, almost quivery, almost. . . . But that was silly

to think of . . . almost as though he felt like crying. And yet all

shining and quiet, too, as if he'd been in church.