ge of the baby in the dining-room while
his mother turned to the work which he was accustomed to seeing her
do. It was as if a great gift of sympathy for his mother in her hour
of need had descended into his small heart.

Marie's first task lay in the bedroom; when she had made her own bed,
she turned to Osborn's, and slowly and thoughtfully, one by one, she
folded up the blankets for storage in the cupboard, dropped the sheets
and pillow-case into the linen-basket without replacing them, and then
spread the pink quilt over the unmade bed.

It would be a year before Osborn wanted it again. _A year!_

A few things of his lay about the room; only a few, for all that were
good enough to pack she had packed. She suddenly advanced upon these
few trifles, swept them together, and pushed them out of sight in a
drawer. Again she looked around. The room seemed expressive now only
of her own entity; she was entirely alone in it.

She advanced to Osborn's bed again, ripped off the quilt and mattress,
and bent her strength to taking apart and folding the iron bedstead.
It was really a man's task, but she accomplished it, and carried it
into the dressing-room, where she put it against the wall, in a
corner. Again she returned to her own room and looked around. Her bed,
her toilet things, everything was hers. True, the baby's cot stood
there; otherwise it was a virgin room.

Anger had muffled the grief in her heart.

"Well," she said, "I have no husband."

CHAPTER XVII

REVIVAL

She began to tidy the room automatically. Through the partitioning
wall she could hear George crooning like a guardian angel to his
charge, and she smiled tenderly. "The darling!" she thought. His
immature and uncomprehending sympathy warmed her chilled heart as
nothing else could have done. She had a great new sensation of
leisure; there was all day to potter about in and no one to prepare
for in the evening.

Life was now timeless, without the clock of man's habits. Nothing
mattered.

She sat down idly before her dressing-table and met again her sallowed
face in the mirror. The sight stirred her anger vigorously once more.
Wrathfully she wanted to do something--anything--and, to keep her
fingers busy, pulled open one of the top drawers of the dressing-table.
Confusion met her, for it was the untidy drawer beloved of woman; the
drawer where ribbons and lace and scent sachets and waist-belts and
flowers and face powder lay pell-mell. Fo