“Are the cigarettes there?”
“Yes: I noticed them particularly.”
“And flowers?”
“Yes, flowers too.”
“What time is it, my dear? I can’t see.”
Maggie peered at the clock.
“It’s just after six, Auntie. Will you have the candles?”
The old lady shook her head.
“No, my dear: my eyes can’t stand the light. Why hasn’t the boy come?”
“Why, it’s hardly time yet. Shall I bring him up at once?”
“Just for two minutes,” sighed the old lady. “My head’s bad again.”
“Poor dear,” said Maggie.
“Sit down, my dearest, for a few minutes. You’ll hear the wheels from here. … No, don’t talk or read.”
There, then, the two women sat waiting.
Outside the twilight was falling, layer on layer, over the spring garden, in a great stillness. The chilly wind of the afternoon had dropped, and there was scarcely a sound to be heard from the living things about the house that once more were renewing their strength. Yet over all, to the Catholic’s mind at least, there lay a shadow of death, from associations with that strange anniversary that was passing, hour by hour. …
As to what Maggie thought during those minutes of waiting, she could have given afterwards no coherent description. Matters were too