“My poor boy!” said the old lady gently.

“And even now,” he went on, with bowed head, “I have fancies.”

“What fancies, John?” asked Mrs. Morrison.

He laid the mirror down on the floor, and glanced over his shoulder toward the door of the room before he answered.  Then he looked at his mother squarely.

“I’ll tell you,” he said.  And then he sat for some seconds in thought.  “You know, mother, how close together we lived—­Hilda and I. I suppose it’s the same with all husbands and wives who are young and love one another.  We had a world of familiar little household jokes and tricks of our own.  There was one in particular.  Whenever I was in here, and Hilda came in, she’d tiptoe through the door and try to get close and surprise me before I heard her.  Does it sound foolish to you, mother?  If it does, you don’t understand at all.”

Mrs. Morrison picked up her knitting and worked a dozen quick stitches.  “No; it doesn’t seem foolish.  I understand it all, my dear,” she replied.

He nodded.  “Well,” he said, “that’s what my fancies are about.  There are moments when I seem to hear something; and I feel quite sure—­ absolutely, utterly certain—­that if I turn round I shall see her there, coming up behind me, all sparkling with laughter.  But I’ve looked, and——­”

He dropped his head into his hands, and his shoulders heaved.

Mrs. Morrison laid her knitting down and went over to him.  “John, dear,” she said, laying a hand lightly on his arm—­“John, dear, this won’t do at all.  I want to help you, my boy.  You know that, don’t you?  But I can’t let you comfort yourself with these dreams, dear.  They’re bad—­very bad for you.  It’s not that way that we shall see our Hilda again, John.”

“Oh, I know,” he answered.  “I know, mother.”  He sat up again, and put her hand away with a warm pressure of thanks.

The old lady went back to her chair with a grave face, and for a while they sat again in silence.  The fire was burning now a little dull, and about the room were sober shadows.  John fell again to handling trifles from the work-basket and the drawer, lifting each to look at it carefully, and laying it aside again.

“Are you looking for something, dear?” asked Mrs. Morrison at last.

“Eh?  Oh no,” he answered absently.  “But I was thinking.”

“Don’t think too much, my boy,” she said.

“It was nothing much,” he said, frowning.  “But, mother, what horrible things these are!” He pointed with a sharp thrust of his finger to the trinkets on the floor.  “She used them, mother.  She had them about her every day.  She handled them, and used them for her momentary purposes and necessities and there is no trace of her on any one of them.”

“John, John!” Mrs. Morrison appealed to him with an outstretched hand, for he spoke with a kind of passion that hurt her like an impropriety.