'I'm going to lie down a while, mother.'
Her mother made no answer as she turned into the kitchen.
Eunice lay down on the bed. A pale yellow sunset gleamed through the branches of the tree outside her window. She had seen the yellow streak in the sky as they had left the cemetery. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Her heart was no longer numb. It was waking to its misery. She lay very still with clenched hands. She had learned to bear physical pain that way. She thought perhaps she could bear this if she lay very still.
'I want to tell you about a book I've just read. It's great stuff.'
'O Stephen, Stephen, laddie!'
The tears came, and great sobs that shook and twisted her rigid body. Once she thought her mother came up the stairs and stopped outside her door. She buried her face in the pillow. Her mother must not hear. By and by,—she had been quiet for an hour,—her mother came in with a tray.
'I've made you some toast and tea, Eunice. You must keep up your strength.'
Her tone was flat and emotionless. She set the tray down by her in the darkness. Then she lighted the gas.
Eunice swallowed the tea obediently, she was so very tired. As she put the cup down her eyes fell on the cretonne-covered box in the window.
'Mother, my Glory-Box! Don't let me see it! Oh, don't let me see my Glory-Box!'