long as possible," she thought dully, and it was so natural
to her to plan sparing them, that for a minute the idea took her mind
away from her own anguish. "If I could only die like this, then they
need never know," she found herself reflecting coldly a little later, so
coldly that she seemed to have no personal interest, no will to choose
in the matter. "If I could only die like this, nobody need be
hurt--except Harry," she added.

For the first time, with the thought of Harry, her restraint suddenly
failed her. "Yes, it would hurt Harry. I must live because Harry would
want me to," she said aloud; and as though her strength were reinforced
by the words, she rose and prepared herself to go downstairs to
breakfast--prepared herself, too, for the innumerable little agonies
which would come with the day, for the sight of Susan, for the visits
from the neighbours, for the eager questions about the fashions in New
York which Miss Willy would ask. And all the time she was thinking
clearly, "It can't last forever. It must end some time. Who knows but it
may stop the next minute, and one can stand a minute of anything."

The day passed, the week, the month, and gradually the spring came and
went, awakening life in the trees, in the grass, in the fields, but not
in her heart. Even the dried sticks in the yard put out shoots of living
green and presently bore blossoms, and in the borders by the front gate,
the crocuses, which she had planted with her own hands a year ago, were
ablaze with gold. All nature seemed joining in the resurrection of life,
all nature, except herself, seemed to flower again to fulfilment. She
alone was dead, and she alone among the dead must keep up this pretence
of living which was so much harder than death.

Once every week she wrote to the children, restrained yet gently flowing
letters in which there was no mention of Oliver. It had been so long,
indeed, since either Harry or the girls had associated their parents
together, that the omission called forth no question, hardly, she
gathered, any surprise. Their lives were so full, their interests were
so varied, that, except at the regular intervals when they sat down to
write to her, it is doubtful if they ever seriously wondered about her.
In July, Jenny came home for a month, and Lucy wrote regretfully that
she was "so disappointed that she couldn't join mother somewhere in the
mountains"; but beyond this, the girls' lives hardly appeared to touch