A little before five Jean left. The wind had reached a point of cold fury that made it almost impossible to breathe.
"I do hope she hasn't gone to service, even in a taxi." The possibility worried Jean all the way home. "I wish Lent came in the summer." As she let herself into the apartment she called gayly:
"Hello!"
There was no answer.
"Oh, mummy, it is silly. If God's everywhere, why can't you talk to Him here?"
It was half past five now, and, at the latest, Martha would be in by six. Jean put the kettle on the gas and the cold chicken and ham into the ice-box. The chocolate cake stood on the lowest shelf of the pantry.
"It's no good. I can never change her. I might just as well let her go peacefully on."
She turned the gas low under the kettle and went into her own room to take off her things. The connecting door to Martha's was ajar, and the wind, whistling down the light-well, rushed at Jean, striking like a hand.
"Whew!" She threw her things on the bed and hurried to close the window.
Sitting in the rocker by the bed, one shoe on, the other by her side, her hands quiet in her lap, her head back, tilted a little as if listening, and with a terrible smile on the open lips, sat Martha. Jean swayed on the threshold, and then moved slowly and heavily toward the chair. The curtain blew in and the end flapped against Martha's shoulder. Jean put it aside. Without a sound she dropped beside the chair and her arms closed about her mother. The little figure lurched sideways and the cold cheek lay against her own. As cold and still as the dead, Jean knelt.