“You’ll sleep here again to-night, won’t you?” they said when he was ready to go. Edwin thanked them. “Oh, we’re only too pleased to be of any assistance to your mother,” they said, pursuing his departure with the kindest and most innocent of smiles. This time he did not linger in the old garden: he was far too anxious to get home and learn how things were going. At the door in the wall his heart stood still. What was he going to find? It seemed to him that something terrible might be waiting for him on the other side of the wall. It was a silly apprehension, he thought, and when he stepped into it the new garden was as sunny as the old. Only, on the long walk beside the bed of stocks, a mattress, blankets, and sheets were spread out to air in the sun. The scent of some disinfectant mingled with that of the flowers. His fears supplied an awful explanation. It was the bedding from his mother’s room that was spread out there in the sun. And when he looked up to the windows of the house above him, he saw that the blinds were down. That, of course, needn’t mean anything on the sunny side of the house. In a great hurry he turned the corner to the front and saw that the blinds on that side were down as well. III In the darkened dining-room Aunt Laura sat at his mother’s desk writing letters with dashing fluency. When he came in she stopped her writing and rose to meet him. “Edwin, my poor dear,” she said, holding out her hands to him. He took no notice of her hands. “She’s gone,” he said, “in the night?” “Yes. . . . In the night. She passed away quite quietly. It’s a dreadful blow for us, Edwin, we must be brave. . . .” He hadn’t time for sentiments of that kind. “She was alive when I came yesterday. And you wouldn’t let me see her. _You_, of all people. . . . She hated you. She told me so. She always hated you . . . and she’d hate you for this more than anything.” “Edwin,” she cried, “don’t say these terrible things!’ “They’re true . . . true. I wish it were you who were dead. It was you who stopped me from seeing her . . . my little darling. . . . Damn you . . . damn you.” “Edwin . . . you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re cruel.” “Cruel. . . . I like that. Cruel. _You_ talk about cruelty. . . .” “Edwin. . . .” Aunt Laura clutched nervously at her breast. It was funny to see this big blowzy woman crumple up like that. She flopped down in a red plush chair and started crying softly in a thin voice. Edwin didn’t mind. Let her cry. She deserved it. Nothing of that kind could soften his indignant heart. “Where’s father?” he asked at last. “I don’t know. He’s upstairs somewhere,” she said between her sobs. “For goodness’ sake, Edwin, don’t go and say things like this to the poor man. We all have this trouble to bear. And we’ve had the strain of nursing her. Now, don’t be hasty,” she pleaded. “All right,” said Edwin, and left her.