'I'm going around to--to Stephen's, mother. I'll not be gone long.' Mrs. Day followed her to the steps; her face was pitifully pinched, almost old. At the gate Eunice turned and saw her. 'Poor mother!' She wanted to go back and kiss her but she dared not. Stephen's home was on the other side of the town. It was a small frame house painted light gray, with a gable back and front, and a narrow porch running across it. This morning the shades in the parlor were drawn down. Eunice had to wait some moments before the door was opened by Stephen's young sister--a slip of a thing but a capable housekeeper. Her eyes were swollen with crying. 'She's so little,' thought Eunice, and took her in her arms. When the girl was able to speak, she told Eunice that her father had gone to New York, and that he would bring Stephen home. Eunice stayed an hour, comforting, talking, planning. Then she left her. 'I'm so quiet. I didn't know it could be like this.' The March wind blew the dust into her face. The grit irritated her. She wished there were snow on the ground and then wondered that she should care. That was how it was the next two days: she went on thinking and acting, with every now and then this strange awareness of being alive. But on Monday afternoon when they came home from the cemetery, Eunice went upstairs to her room. 'I'm going to lie down a while, mother.' Her mother made no answer as she turned into the kitchen. Eunice lay down on the bed. A pale yellow sunset gleamed through the branches of the tree outside her window. She had seen the yellow streak in the sky as they had left the cemetery. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Her heart was no longer numb. It was waking to its misery. She lay very still with clenched hands. She had learned to bear physical pain that way. She thought perhaps she could bear this if she lay very still. 'I want to tell you about a book I've just read. It's great stuff.' 'O Stephen, Stephen, laddie!' The tears came, and great sobs that shook and twisted her rigid body. Once she thought her mother came up the stairs and stopped outside her door. She buried her face in the pillow. Her mother must not hear. By and by,--she had been quiet for an hour,--her mother came in with a tray. 'I've made you some toast and tea, Eunice. You must keep up your strength.' Her tone was flat and emotionless. She set the tray down by her in the darkness. Then she lighted the gas. Eunice swallowed the tea obediently, she was so very tired. As she put the cup down her eyes fell on the cretonne-covered box in the window. 'Mother, my Glory-Box! Don't let me see it! Oh, don't let me see my Glory-Box!' Mrs. Day came up to the bed. 'I'll take it out to-morrow while you are at school. I meant to do that.' Her face worked as she left the room.