Warm drops were falling on his knees, warm drops fell on her hair.
Welling from deep sources—but unlike, and flowing different ways.
DARK FURROWS
Sunday morning—a calm and peaceful time. Olof was up, and sat combing his hair before the glass.
"Those wrinkles there on the temples are getting deeper," he thought.
"Well, after all, I suppose it looks more manly."
He laid down the comb, turned his head slightly, and looked in the glass again.
"Paler, too, perhaps," he thought again. "Well, I'm no longer a boy…."
He moved as if to rise.
"Look once more—a little closer," urged the glass.
Olof brushed his moustache and smiled.
"Can't you see anything?" the glass went on, with something like a sneer. "Under the eyes, for instance?"