ay, and couldn't shake it off in the
evening like other men. Besides, Anna was interested--they talked of
practically nothing else together. Excellent mother she'd make for a
boy; she had a grip of things.

Church bells started ringing through the windy air, now sounding as
though from very far away, then again as though all the churches in
the town had been suddenly transplanted into their street. They stirred
something in him, those bells, something vague and tender. Just about
that time Anna would call him from the hall. "Andreas, come and have
your coat brushed. I'm ready." Then off they would go, she hanging on
his arm, and looking up at him. She certainly was a little thing. He
remembered once saying when they were engaged, "Just as high as my
heart," and she had jumped on to a stool and pulled his head down,
laughing. A kid in those days, younger than her children in nature,
brighter, more "go" and "spirit" in her. The way she'd run down the
road to meet him after business! And the way she laughed when they
were looking for a house. By Jove! that laugh of hers! At the memory he
grinned, then grew suddenly grave. Marriage certainly changed a woman
far more than it did a man. Talk about sobering down. She had lost all
her go in two months! Well, once this boy business was over she'd get
stronger. He began to plan a little trip for them. He'd take her away
and they'd loaf about together somewhere. After all, dash it, they were
young still. She'd got into a groove; he'd have to force her out of it,
that's all.

He got up and went into the drawing-room, carefully shut the door and
took Anna's photograph from the top of the piano. She wore a white dress
with a big bow of some soft stuff under the chin, and stood, a little
stiffly, holding a sheaf of artificial poppies and corn in her hands.
Delicate she looked even then; her masses of hair gave her that look.
She seemed to droop under the heavy braids of it, and yet she was
smiling. Andreas caught his breath sharply. She was his wife--that girl.
Posh! it had only been taken four years ago. He held it close to him,
bent forward and kissed it. Then rubbed the glass with the back of his
hand. At that moment, fainter than he had heard in the passage, more
terrifying, Andreas heard again that wailing cry. The wind caught it up
in mocking echo, blew it over the house-tops, down the street, far away
from him. He flung out his arms, "I'm so damnably helpless," he said,
and t