d going over
to the stove took the fork from Janet's hand and put the steak on the
dish.

"Go in there and set down, Edward," she said. "I guess we've got to have
breakfast just the same, whether she's gone or not."

It was terrible to see Hannah, with that look on her face, going about
her tasks automatically. And Edward, too, seemed suddenly to have become
aged and broken; his trust in the world, so amazingly preserved through
many vicissitudes, shattered at last. He spilled his coffee when he tried
to drink, and presently he got up and wandered about the room, searching
for his overcoat. It was Janet who found it and helped him on with it. He
tried to say something, but failing, departed heavily for the mill. Janet
began to remove the dishes from the table.

"You've got to eat something, too, before you go to work," said Hannah.

"I've had all I want," Janet replied.

Hannah followed her into the kitchen. The scarcely touched food was laid
aside, the coffee-pot emptied, Hannah put the cups in the basin in the
sink and let the water run. She turned to Janet and seized her hands
convulsively.

"Let me do this, mother," said Janet. She knew her mother was thinking of
the newly-found joy that Lise's disgrace had marred, but she released her
hands, gently, and took the mop from the nail on which it hung.

"You sit down, mother," she said.

Hannah would not. They finished the dishes together in silence while the
light of the new day stole in through the windows. Janet went into her
room, set it in order, made up the bed, put on her coat and hat and
rubbers. Then she returned to Hannah, who seized her.

"It ain't going to spoil your happiness?"

But Janet could not answer. She kissed her mother, and went out, down the
stairs into the street. The day was sharp and cold and bracing, and out
of an azure sky the sun shone with dazzling brightness on the snow, which
the west wind was whirling into little eddies of white smoke, leaving on
the drifts delicate scalloped designs like those printed by waves on the
sands of the sea. They seemed to Janet that morning hatefully beautiful.
In front of his tin shop, whistling cheerfully and labouring
energetically with a shovel to clean his sidewalk, was Johnny Tiernan,
the tip of his pointed nose made very red by the wind.

"Good morning, Miss Bumpus," he said. "Now, if you'd only waited awhile,
I'd have had it as clean as a parlour. It's fine weather for coal bills."

She