exactly. Still, she did not care to think of it. She kept out of Amy's
room. It had subtly changed and become Joe's room--to her mind at
least--though by little things he said and did she knew that Joe was
keeping that idealized image of his wife still warm and living in his
mind.

But was he--altogether? At times she would frown to herself a bit. Joe
loyal? Yes, of course he was, she would indignantly declare. In a
novel Ethel had once read, the hero who had lost his wife had taken his
grief in this same silent way; and the author had laid it down as a law
that all quiet widowers are the kind who never, never marry again. This
thought had taken root in her mind; and she applied it now to Joe.

Soon at his suggestion she began to use some of Amy's things. One night
when they were going out, he helped her slip into her sister's soft
luxurious sable cloak. And as she turned, she detected a queerly
uncertain look in Joe's eyes. But in an instant it was gone, and she
soon dismissed her uneasiness. For through the weeks that followed he
became engrossed in his business and barely noticed her at all.



CHAPTER VI

About this time a letter from home brought her a sharp disappointment.
Ethel was not a good correspondent, but during the homesick winter
months she had written several times to three of the girls she had known
in school. Two had gone west, but the other one was still in Ohio and
was planning to come to New York, to take a course of training as nurse
in one of the hospitals. In fact it had been all arranged. And Ethel