“Presently, presently,” I reiterated; “and am I going home?”

At last my mind went astray; it journeyed into a dismal world, and came back without an account of its adventures.  While it was gone, my friends were summoned to witness a contest, where the odds were in favor of death.  But I recovered.  Whether it was youth, a good constitution, or the skill of Dr. White, no one could decide.  It was a faint, feeble, fluttering return at first.  The faces round me, mobile with life, wearied me.  I was indifferent to existence, and was more than once in danger of lapsing into the void I had escaped.

When I first tottered downstairs, he had been buried more than three weeks.  It was a bright morning; the windows of the parlor, where Charlotte led me, were open.  Little Edward was playing round the table upon which I had seen his father stretched, dead.  I measured it with my eye, remembering how tall he looked.  I would have retreated, when I saw that Alice had visitors, but it was too late.  They rose, and offered congratulations.  I was angry that there was no change in the house.  The rooms should have been dismantled, reflecting disorder and death, by their perpetual darkness and disorder.  It was not so.  No dust had been allowed to gather on the furniture, no wrinkles or stains.  No mist on the mirrors, no dimness anywhere.  Alice was elegantly dressed, in the deepest mourning.  I examined her with a cynical eye; her bombazine was trimmed with crape, and the edge of her collar was beautifully crimped.  A mourning brooch fastened it, and she wore jet ear-rings.  She looked handsome, composed, and contented, holding a black-edged handkerchief.  Charlotte had placed my chair opposite a glass; I caught sight of my elongated visage in it.  How dull I looked!  My hair was faded and rough; my eyes were a pale, lusterless blue.  The visitors departed, while I still contemplated my rueful aspect, and Alice and I were alone.

“I want some broth, Alice.  I am hungry.”

“How many bowls have you had this morning?”

“Only two.”

“You must wait an hour for the third; it is not twelve o’clock.”

We were silent.  The flies buzzed in and out of the windows; a great bee flew in, tumbled against the panes, loudly hummed, and after a while got out again.  Alice yawned, and I pulled the threads out of the border of my handkerchief.

“The hour is up; I will get your broth.”

“Bring me a great deal.”

She came back with a thin, impoverished liquid.

“There is no chicken in it,” I said tearfully.

“I took it out.”

“How could you?” And I wept.

She smiled.  “You are very weak, but shall have a bit.”  She went for it, returning with an infinitesimal portion of chicken.

“What a young creature it must have been, Alice!”

She laughed, promising me more, by and by.

“Now you must lie down.  Take my arm and come to the sofa.