othed his way into the flat. He "was afraid
there might be just a little touch of pneumonia." With breezy
fatherliness which inspirited Una, he spoke of the possible presence of
pneumococcus, of doing magic things with Romer's serum, of trusting in
God, of the rain, of cold baths and digitalin. He patted Una's head and
cheerily promised to return at dawn. He yawned and smiled at himself. He
looked as roundly, fuzzily sleepy as a bunny rabbit, but in the quiet,
forlorn room of night and illness he radiated trust in himself. Una said
to herself, "He certainly must know what he is talking about."

She was sure that the danger was over. She did not go to bed, however.
She sat stiffly in the bedroom and planned amusements for her mother.
She would work harder, earn more money. They would move to a cottage in
the suburbs, where they would have chickens and roses and a kitten, and
her mother would find neighborly people again.

Five days after, late on a bright, cool afternoon, when all the flats
about them were thinking of dinner, her mother died.

Sec. 8

There was a certain madness in Una's grief. Her agony was a big, simple,
uncontrollable emotion, like the fanaticism of a crusader--alarming, it
was, not to be reckoned with, and beautiful as a storm. Yet it was no
more morbid than the little fits of rage with which a school-teacher
relieves her cramped spirit. For the first time she had the excuse to
exercise her full power of emotion.

Una evoked an image of her mother as one who had been altogether good,
understanding, clever, and unfortunate. She regretted every moment she
had spent away from her--remembered with scorn that she had planned to
go to the theater the preceding Saturday, instead of sanctifying the
time in the Nirvana of the beloved's presence; repented with writhing
agony having spoken harshly about neglected household duties.

She even contrived to find it a virtue in her mother that she had so
often forgotten the daily tasks--her mind had been too fine for such
things.... Una retraced their life. But she remembered everything only
as one remembers under the sway of music.

"If I could just have another hour, just one hour with her, and feel her
hands on my eyes again--"

On the night before the funeral she refused to let even Mrs. Sessions
stay with her. She did not want to share her mother's shadowy presence
with any one.

She lay on the floor beside the bed where her mother was stately in
d