It was a beautiful morning. With Susette she went to a florist's shop and had the child pick out some flowers. Then they went out to Amy's grave. And a moment came to Ethel there, an overwhelming moment, when something seemed bursting up in herself and crying passionately:
But a little miracle happened. For Susette, who was only three years old and understood nothing of all this, took half the purple asters from Amy's grave, and turning back confidingly she put the rest in Ethel's hand--and then saw a sparrow and chased it, and laughed merrily as it flew away.
At night when Joe came home, although he did not speak of the flowers, she knew that he too had been at the grave. He appeared relieved, the tension gone.
"Now is the time to speak of her." And Ethel looked up with a resolute frown. . . . But once again she put it off. Soon they were talking naturally.
Weeks passed, and the memory of that day dropped swiftly back behind them. And there came a night when Joe, close by her side, had been talking slowly for some time, his voice husky, strained and low, and she had been sitting very still. She turned at last with a quick little smile, said:
"Yes, Joe, I'll--marry you--and--oh, I'm very happy! Please go now, dear! Please go--go!"
And when he had gone she still sat very still.
From that night the name of her sister was not spoken between them--was not spoken for nearly two years.
She grew used to being held in Joe's arms, to his kisses and to his voice that had changed, to the things he said and the way his eyes looked into hers. That hunger, it was always there, and growing, always growing! The feeling she'd never had before, that--"We're to be parts of one another!"--deepened, thrilled her with its depth, dazzled and confused her mind.
One day she went to Amy's room, and slowly began looking over the clothes. From the closet and the drawers, in a careful, tender way she took the shimmering little gowns and dainty hats and slippers, silk stockings, filmy night-gowns--and packed them into boxes. All were to be given away. "I couldn't!" Her throat contracting, she turned away with a sharp pang of pity and of jealousy and of a deep, deep tenderness.
She lavished her love upon Amy's child. What adorable little garments she bought for Susette, those autumn days. And at night, bending over her cradle, Ethel would whisper to her, "Oh, I'm dreaming, dreaming, dear!" And to Susette this was a huge joke, and they would laugh at it like mad. "Oh, my precious loved one! What a fine, happy life we'll lead!"