"Looks natchurl, don’t he, ma'am?"
"Did he suffer, Mary?"
"Went too quick to suffer, ma'am. Died in bed. Heart trouble takes 'em that way. Liquor, the doctors said. Guess he drank purty much after you went, ma'am."
Neither spoke for some minutes. The figure in the coffin fascinated them. Their eyes remained fixed upon the massive face, a face which might have been molded out of soft putty. The small eyes were closed, but the heavy jowl drew them downward and revealed slits of pale blue. The wide chin was creased twice, and seemed to roll down below the stiff white collar.
The servant broke the silence. "Perhaps I better git you a bite to eat, ma'am. A warm cup o' tea would do you good."
"No, Mary. Just take my things up. I'll be out presently."
The doors swung silently shut behind the servant. The woman who remained gazed quietly down upon her husband. Only one candle now remained lighted. It cast a pale yellow light into the face of the dead man. At length the woman lifted her eyes and glanced about her. The large room was dark and still. She could just discern the outlines of familiar objects. A chair, a table, a picture. She lowered her eyes once more and studied the expressionless face below her.
She thought: "Death is stronger than love. Death has made him meek and still. Love only gave him the power to hurt, to crush. I don't hate him any more; I simply pity him."
The lone candle sputtered and went out. The white face in the coffin was the only object that could be seen in the black room. Mrs. Hargrove did not move. She continued to watch the face, still thinking.
"Anne—Anne."
Mrs. Hargrove whirled about. The voice came from behind. She had heard no one enter. The room was dark.
"Anne—Anne—the will—Anne!"
It was a man’s voice, deep and solemn. It sounded like her husband's voice. She turned back to the coffin.
"Anne—Anne—"
No, it came from behind, but it was John’s voice.
"Yes, John," she said softly.
A shaft of light crossed the room.
"Are you all right ma'am? I thought mebbe you took sick bein' in here so long."
The servant switched the lights on as she talked.
"Yes, Mary, I'm quite all right," replied Mrs. Hargrove calmly.
3
It seemed to Hargrove that he had been asleep an unusually long time. The sun was already streaming through the open windows as he leisurely rose from his bed. Ten o’clock, at least, he thought. He turned mechanically toward the small table that contained his whisky siphon and he moved slowly toward it. He reached for a glass, but his hand seemed unable to close upon it. In fact, he thought his hand went right through it as if it were a shadow. Somewhat dismayed, he turned and walked back to his bed. He decided that he was very sleepy, or perhaps still under the influence. He sat down on the edge of the bed and thoughtfully placed his head in his two hands. Finally he stood up again, convinced that he was neither asleep nor drunk. He glanced down at the foot of the bed for his bathrobe. He would bathe and get dressed. Then he would feel better. His eyes fell upon the fat figure stretched out beside him and he remembered then that it was dead.
With the realization of death came intense misery. Hargrove had never
