“Good-night,” he said, and left the room—­left her burning, trembling.  She pressed both hands tight to her cheeks, pressed the hot tears from her eyes.

At other times, she told herself, “Yes, I’m going to marry him.  But there’s nothing to be so excited about—­or scared like this.  I know him now, I know just what he is and what he is not.  He is not a good many things I had dreamed of, but he’s so dear and kind and safe.  And I want to have children.”  Gravely wondering, she would look ahead.  “You’re no longer a child, my dear.  Be strong and sensible.  This is real. . . .  It’s getting rather cold tonight.  I must run in and see if Susette is warm.”

She still felt Amy’s presence.  Out of the various rooms certain pictures, chairs and vases forced themselves upon her attention.  For some time past she had disliked them.  It seemed to her at moments as though she could not have them here.

She knew what they were waiting for now.  It was nearly the end of October, and the day which both dreaded was nearly at hand, the anniversary of her death.  They spoke not a word to each other about it, except once when Joe said gruffly: 

“There’s a bad time coming for both of us.  Let’s try not to be morbid about it.”  As it drew nearer she felt, she must speak.  She felt how this unspoken name of her sister would keep rising, rising, between them for the rest of their lives.  It was uncanny, it was like a spell, the force of this unspoken name; and she thought, “I must break it!”

And yet she did not speak.  She had little opportunity, for she saw very little of Joe that week.  When the dreaded night arrived, he did not come home until very late.  From her room she heard him come in, and presently by the silence she knew he had settled himself to work.  She barely slept, rose early and dressed herself with a resolute air.  But already Joe had gone.

It was a beautiful morning.  With Susette she went to a florist’s shop and had the child pick out some flowers.  Then they went out to Amy’s grave.  And a moment came to Ethel there, an overwhelming moment, when something seemed bursting up in herself and crying passionately: 

“I can’t!”

But a little miracle happened.  For Susette, who was only three years old and understood nothing of all this, took half the purple asters from Amy’s grave, and turning back confidingly she put the rest in Ethel’s hand—­and then saw a sparrow and chased it, and laughed merrily as it flew away.

At night when Joe came home, although he did not speak of the flowers, she knew that he too had been at the grave.  He appeared relieved, the tension gone.

“Now is the time to speak of her.”  And Ethel looked up with a resolute frown. . . .  But once again she put it off.  Soon they were talking naturally.

Weeks passed, and the memory of that day dropped swiftly back behind them.  And there came a night when Joe, close by her side, had been talking slowly for some time, his voice husky, strained and low, and she had been sitting very still.  She turned at last with a quick little smile, said: