r shoulder, and who spoke of Molly Brandeis
with that sincerity of admiration such as men usually give only to men.
People were constantly popping in at the back door with napkin-covered
trays, and dishes and baskets. A wonderful and beautiful thing, that
homely small-town sympathy that knows the value of physical comfort in
time of spiritual anguish.

Two days after the funeral Fanny Brandeis went back to the store, much
as her mother had done many years before, after her husband's death. She
looked about at the bright, well-stocked shelves and tables with a new
eye--a speculative eye. The Christmas season was over. January was the
time for inventory and for replenishment. Mrs. Brandeis had always
gone to Chicago the second week in January for the spring stock. But
something was forming in Fanny Brandeis's mind--a resolve that grew so
rapidly as to take her breath away. Her brain felt strangely clear and
keen after the crashing storm of grief that had shaken her during the
past week.

"What are you going to do now?" people had asked her, curious and
interested. "Is Theodore coming back?"

"I don't know--yet." In answer to the first. And, "No. Why should he? He
has his work."

"But he could be of such help to you."

"I'll help myself," said Fanny Brandeis, and smiled a curious smile
that had in it more of bitterness and less of mirth than any smile has a
right to have.

Mrs. Brandeis had left a will, far-sighted business woman that she was.
It was a terse, clear-headed document, that gave "to Fanny Brandeis, my
daughter," the six-thousand-dollar insurance, the stock, good-will and
fixtures of Brandeis' Bazaar, the house furnishings, the few pieces of
jewelry in their old-fashioned setting. To Theodore was left the sum of
fifteen hundred dollars. He had received his share in the years of his
musical education.

Fanny Brandeis did not go to Chicago that January. She took inventory
of Brandeis' Bazaar, carefully and minutely. And then, just as carefully
and minutely she took stock of Fanny Brandeis. There was something
relentless and terrible in the way she went about this self-analysis.
She walked a great deal that winter, often out through the drifts to the
little cemetery. As she walked her mind was working, working. She held
long mental conversations with herself during these walks, and once she
was rather frightened to find herself talking aloud. She wondered if she
had done that before. And a plan was maturi