I DO not know how often on All Souls’ Day she had been to the graveyard of Koscher, but to-day she is hurrying there again, and her feet do not bear her as nimbly as of yore. Everything else, however, was just as it used to be years ago. At eleven o’clock her heavy body got out of the droshky, then came the coachman carrying grave-wreaths, wrapped in a piece of white cloth, and last a five year old child, warmly dressed. This little girl had been five years old for fifteen years. Every year Miss Mary borrows her in the neighborhood.
“There, my dear! Now look—look at the crowd of people. It’s a good sized crowd, isn’t it? And the candles, and the little lamps, and the flowers! Go on, my child—go on! Don’t be afraid. Go right ahead wherever you wish. I am coming right behind you.”
The child walks timidly along. Miss Mary follows, encourages it, but she does not point out the direction which they are to take. It trots along and turns this way and that until at last Miss Mary says: “Wait, dear!” She takes the child by the hand and guides it between two graves. She takes down from an iron cross, the wreath, bleached by wind and weather, and hangs up the fresh one—made of black and white—in its place. Then she places her hand upon the cross and begins to pray. It would be too hard for her to kneel down. At first her eyes rest upon the withered grass and the grey earth, then she lifts her head. Her wide, pleasant face and blue eyes are looking into space. Her eyes become sad, her lips tremble, and tears course down over her face. The little girl is abashed, but her companion hears and sees nothing. Then she draws a long sigh as if she had just gained possession of herself again, smiles through her tears at the child, and speaks in a voice that frames the words a little harshly:
“Go now where you wish! I’m coming right after you.”
Then she began again the strange promenade, and the little girl, trembling and uncertain, decides the direction. Again Miss Mary says: “Stop!” and she goes up to another grave. There she does what she did before, and tarries perhaps a minute longer. Here she places the second withered wreath in the white cloth beside the first one, and then takes her little companion by the hand.
“You are cold, isn’t that so? Well, come on—we must not delay then. We’ll get into the droshky and drive home. You like to drive, don’t you?”
After some effort they reached the droshky, the little child and the wreaths ahead and Miss Mary follows not without difficulty. The wheels creak, two blows fall upon the horse and they set out.
Thus it goes, year out and year in. Miss Mary, secretive and unapproachable, had attached herself to no one throughout her life. From childhood she had had but one friend, Miss Louise, who now was the faded widow of the superintendent of finance, Nocar. Today she will visit Mrs. Nocar a while. Only seldom does she visit her friend, because she goes out little, and only leaves her dwelling on Sunday morning, when she goes to mass in Nicholas church. As fat as she is she cannot join walking parties. Therefore, she is spared by her friend Mrs. Nocar, who usually calls upon her daily. As result of sincere friendship extending over a period of years, they are one heart now, one thought.
Today especially if Miss Mary were at home alone she would be melancholy. The house would be emptier than usual. For Mrs. Nocar, too, it is a holy day. Never on any other day is she so especially careful at the coffee roasting, so particular that the cakes be light and well baked. Today her conversation is always carried on in a sort of subdued voice. They do not say very much, but what they do say, sounds monotonous. From time to time a tear shines upon the cheek and the number of their friendly embraces is increased. They sit long upon the sofa side by side, until they reach the yearly point of their conversation.
“The dear God,” begins Mrs. Nocar, “has treated us both alike. I had a good brave husband and two years ago he was taken away from me forever—and he did not even leave me a little baby to take care of. Since then I am all alone. I don’t know which is worse—to have and lose or not to have.”