There were none such in the eyes of Professor Marshall as he came down the stairs to greet his daughter.  Sylvia was immeasurably shocked by his aspect.  He did not look like her father.  She sought in vain in that gray countenance for any trace of her father’s expression.  He came forward with a slow, dragging step, and kissed his daughter, taking her hand—­his, she noticed, felt like a sick man’s, parched, the skin like a dry husk.  He spoke, in a voice which had no resonance, the first words that had been uttered:  “You must be very tired, Sylvia.  You would better go and lie down.  Your sister will go with you.”  He himself turned away and walked slowly towards the open door.  Sylvia noticed that he shuffled his feet as he walked.

Judith drew Sylvia away up the stairs to her own slant-ceilinged room, and the two sat down on the bed, side by side, with clasped hands.  Judith now told briefly the outline of what had happened.  Sylvia listened, straining her swollen eyes to see her sister’s face, wiping away the tears which ran incessantly down her pale, grimy cheeks, repressing her sobs to listen, although they broke out in one burst after another.  Her mother had gone down very suddenly and they had cabled at once—­then she grew better—­she had been unspeakably brave—­fighting the disease by sheer will-power—­she had conquered it—­she was gaining—­they were sorry they had cabled Sylvia—­she had not known she was going to die—­none of them had dreamed she was going to die—­suddenly as the worst of her disease had spent itself and the lungs were beginning to clear—­suddenly her heart had given way, and before the nurse could call her husband and children to her, she was gone.  They had been there under the same roof, and had not been with her at the last.  The last time they had seen her, she was alive and smiling at them—­such a brave, wan shadow of her usual smile—­for a few moments they went about their affairs, full of hope—­and when they entered the sick-room again—­

Sylvia could bear no more, screaming out, motioning Judith imperiously to stop;—­she began to understand what had happened to her; the words she had repeated so dully were like thunder in her ears.  Her mother was dead.

Judith took her sister again in her arms, holding her close, as though she were the older.  Sylvia was weeping again, the furious, healing, inexhaustible tears of youth.  To both the sisters it seemed that they were passing an hour of supreme bitterness; but their strong young hearts, clinging with unconscious tenacity to their right to joy, were at that moment painfully opening and expanding beyond the narrow bounds of childhood.  Henceforth they were to be great enough to harbor joy—­a greater joy—­and sorrow, side by side.

Moreover, as though their action-loving mother were still watching over them, they found themselves confronted at once with an inexorable demand for their strength and courage.

Judith detached herself, and said in a firm voice:  “Sylvia, you mustn’t cry any more.  We must think what to do.”