“I can’t stand it any longer,” she thought.  “I must breathe the open air, or I shall die.”

Then, just as she was about to hurry toward the stairs, she checked herself and stood still because she realized that the old woman had followed her and was droning into her ear.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s the way life is,” the impersonal voice was muttering, “but it ain’t the only way that it is, I reckon.  I sees so many sick and dying folks that you’d think I was obliged to look at things unnatural-like.  But I don’t, not me, ma’am.  It ain’t all that way, with nothing but waiting and wanting, and then disappointment.  Even Maggie had her good times somewhere in the past.  You can’t expect to be always dressed in spangles and riding bareback, that’s what I used to say to her.  You’ve got to take your share of bad times, same as the rest of us.  And look at me now.  I’ve done sick nursing for more’n fifty years—­as far back as I like to look—­but it ain’t all been sick nursing.  There’s been a deal in it besides.

“Naw’m, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for when I begin to take stock.”  Her wrinkled face caught the first gleam of sunlight that fell through the unwashed window panes.  “I’ve done sick nursing ever since I was a child almost; but I’ve managed mighty well all things considering, and I’ve saved up enough to keep me out of the poor house when I get too old to go on.  When I give up I won’t have to depend on charity, and the city won’t have to bury me either when I’m dead.  And I’ve got a heap of satisfaction out of my red geraniums too.  I don’t reckon you ever saw finer blooms—­not even in a greenhouse.  Naw’m, I ain’t been the complaining sort.  I’ve got a lot to be thankful for, and I know it.”

Her old eyes shone; her sunken mouth was trembling, not with self-pity, Corinna realized, with a pang that was strangely like terror, but with the courage of living.  The pathos of it appeared intolerable for a moment; and gathering her cloak about her, Corinna felt that she must cover her eyes and fly before she broke out into hysterical screaming.  Then the terror passed; and she saw, in a single piercing flash of insight, that what she had mistaken for ugliness was simply an impalpable manifestation of beauty.  Beauty!  Why it was everywhere!  It was with her now in this squalid house, in the presence of this crippled old woman, unmoved by death, inured to poverty, screwing, grinding, pinching, like flint to the crying baby, and yet cherishing the blooms of her red geranium, her passionate horror of the poor house, and her dream of six feet of free earth not paid for by charity at the end.  Yes, that was the way of life.  Blind as a mole to the universe, and yet visited by flashes of unearthly light.