," he said, "it's only now, mother,
that I realize that Hilda is really gone. I can't explain it very
well, but before this evening it seemed--well, it seemed idiotic to
think that my wife was dead. It felt impossible, somehow."

"My poor boy!" said the old lady gently.

"And even now," he went on, with bowed head, "I have fancies."

"What fancies, John?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

He laid the mirror down on the floor, and glanced over his shoulder
toward the door of the room before he answered. Then he looked at his
mother squarely.

"I'll tell you," he said. And then he sat for some seconds in
thought. "You know, mother, how close together we lived--Hilda and I.
I suppose it's the same with all husbands and wives who are young and
love one another. We had a world of familiar little household jokes
and tricks of our own. There was one in particular. Whenever I was
in here, and Hilda came in, she'd tiptoe through the door and try to
get close and surprise me before I heard her. Does it sound foolish
to you, mother? If it does, you don't understand at all."

Mrs. Morrison picked up her knitting and worked a dozen quick
stitches. "No; it doesn't seem foolish. I understand it all, my
dear," she replied.

He nodded. "Well," he said, "that's what my fancies are about. There
are moments when I seem to hear something; and I feel quite sure--
absolutely, utterly certain--that if I turn round I shall see her
there, coming up behind me, all sparkling with laughter. But I've
looked, and----"

He dropped his head into his hands, and his shoulders heaved.

Mrs. Morrison laid her knitting down and went over to him. "John,
dear," she said, laying a hand lightly on his arm--"John, dear, this
won't do at all. I want to help you, my boy. You know that, don't
you? But I can't let you comfort yourself with these dreams, dear.
They're bad--very bad for you. It's not that way that we shall see
our Hilda again, John."

"Oh, I know," he answered. "I know, mother." He sat up again, and put
her hand away with a warm pressure of thanks.

The old lady went back to her chair with a grave face, and for a
while they sat again in silence. The fire was burning now a little
dull, and about the room were sober shadows. John fell again to
handling trifles from the work-basket and the drawer, lifting each to
look at it carefully, and laying it aside again.

"Are you looking for something, dear?" asked Mrs. Morrison at last.

"Eh? Oh no," he ans