him, or what scars
in the heart which no storm of tears can wash away. Custom has made
hypocrites of the ladies in this matter the wide world through. Let no
man, therefore, lying bloodless and repellent upon his cooling-board,
gather comfort to his cold heart when his widow's tears fall upon his
face. For she may be weeping more for what might have been than was.

Isom Chase's widow could not weep at all. That was what they said of
her, and their pity was more tender, their compassion more sweet. Dry
grief, they said. And that is grief like a covered fire, which smolders
in the heart and chars the foundations of life. She ought to be crying,
to clear her mind and purge herself of the dregs of sorrow, which would
settle and corrode unless flushed out by tears; she ought to get rid of
it at once, like any other widow, and settle down to the enjoyment of
all the property.

The women around Ollie in her room tried to provoke her tears by
reference to Isom's good qualities, his widely known honesty, his
ceaseless striving to lay up property which he knew he couldn't take
with him, which he realized that his young wife would live long years
after him to enjoy. They glozed his faults and made virtues out of his
close-grained traits; they praised and lamented, with sighs and mournful
words, but Isom's widow could not weep.

Ollie wished they would go away and let her sleep. She longed for them
to put out the lamps and let the moonlight come in through the window
and whiten on the floor, and bring her soft thoughts of Morgan. She
chafed under their chatter, and despised them for their shallow
pretense. There was not one of them who had respected Isom in life, but
now they sat there, a solemn conclave, great-breasted sucklers of the
sons of men, and insisted that she, his unloved, his driven, abused and
belabored wife, weep tears for his going, for which, in her heart, she
was glad.

It was well that they could not see her face, turned into the shadow,
nestled against the pillow, moved now and then as by the zephyr breath
of a smile. At times she wanted to laugh at their pretense and humbug.
To prevent it breaking out in unseemly sound she was obliged to bite the
coverlet and let the spasms of mirth waste themselves in her body and
limbs.

When the good women beheld these contractions they looked at each other
meaningly and shook dolefully wise heads. Dry grief. Already it was
laying deep hold on her, racking her like agu