"Aren't you coming to bed soon? It's too late for music," drifted faintly querulous down the hall.
The light went out of her face.
"I'm coming." A leaden weariness was over her. Slowly she closed the piano.
He was already asleep when she tiptoed into the room. She stood a moment staring down at him.
"The worst of it is that I shall sleep, too," she thought.
BUTTERFLIES
BY ROSE SIDNEY
From The Pictorial Review
The wind rose in a sharp gust, rattling the insecure windows and sighing forlornly about the corners of the house. The door unlatched itself, swung inward hesitatingly, and hung wavering for a moment on its sagging hinges. A formless cloud of gray fog blew into the warm, steamy room. But whatever ghostly visitant had paused upon the threshold, he had evidently decided not to enter, for the catch snapped shut with a quick, passionate vigour. The echo of the slamming door rang eerily through the house.
Mart Brenner's wife laid down the ladle with which she had been stirring the contents of a pot that was simmering on the big, black stove, and, dragging her crippled foot behind her, she hobbled heavily to the door.