Just two years ago, in the early summer, before the war, I remember that Caroline, who is not really pretty at all, suddenly came to be quite beautiful. Her small dark thin face was aglow, as if her heart were full of sunlight, and she moved about the shop in a way so glad that it seemed as if every little humble thing she had to do were become for her part of a dance. She gave away to one then more than one bought of larkspur and ramble-roses, and Jeannette and the big brother looked on leniently.
All that seems now very long ago.
So few people can bear happy colours in these days, that Jeannette brings back from the market little else but white and purple flowers, and green leaves for wreaths and crosses.
I was very early this morning, and Jeannette was not yet come back from the Halles.
Caroline was down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was crying as she scrubbed the floor.
She had not expected any one to come so early, and she was crying just as hard as she could cry, while she was alone and had the time.
She got up from her knees and rubbed her bare arm across her eyes.
I thought of her brother at the war, and of the some one because of whom, perhaps, she had been happy, two years ago. I scarcely dared to ask, "Is it bad news, Caroline?"
"No, Madame," she said, still rubbing her eyes, "No, Madame, it is nothing special. It is only as if there were nothing but tears in the world."