Three more years. Harriett was sixty-eight. She had a faint recollection
of having given Maggie notice, long ago, there, in the dining room. Maggie
had stood on the hearthrug, in her large white apron, crying. She was
crying now.

She said she must leave and go and take care of her mother. "Mother's
getting very feeble now."

"I'm getting very feeble, too, Maggie. It's cruel and unkind of you to
leave me."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't help it."

She moved about the room, sniffing and sobbing as she dusted. Harriett
couldn't bear it any more. "If you can't control yourself," she said, "go
into the kitchen." Maggie went.

Harriett sat before the fire in her chair, straight and stiff, making no
sound. Now and then her eyelids shook, fluttered red rims; slow, scanty
tears oozed and fell, their trail glistening in the long furrows of her
cheeks.



XV


The door of the specialist's house had shut behind them with a soft,