"Yes, for the present," Ethel said. She felt the woman glance at her
sharply as she turned toward the door.

She went into her sister's room, sat down and had a little cry. But the
sunlight was streaming in through the pretty chintz curtains there; and
its softness and its ease, its luxury and blithe content, stole into her
spirit and quieted her. She sat looking about.

"What is there for me to do?"

It came over her that the cook and the nurse could tell her just about
what they pleased. She had no means of checking them up, for Amy had
never talked of such things. It had all been pretty clothes and shops,
in those brief exciting weeks, and shrewd counsel about men and what it
was they wanted of women. How appallingly shallow and meaningless those
conversations now appeared. They gave no comfort or support. The
remembrance of the terror in Amy's eyes at the thought of death rose
vividly in Ethel's mind, and she got up and walked the floor.

"We'll fight this down--we'll fight this down," she kept repeating
determinedly. And as soon as she was quiet again: "What is there for me
to do? Why Joe, of course--and heaven knows he'll be enough. He's the
hardest kind, he doesn't cry, he keeps it all inside of him." She drew a
deep breath. "How about this room?" She frowned and looked around her.
"No, I don't think he wants anything changed. For the present at least,
I'll leave it alone. But he ought not to be reminded of her by every
little thing he sees."

She looked into the closets. In Joe's she found some of Amy's things.
She put them back in her sister's closet and then gently closed the