Her mother was already there, a tall woman with a huge chest. She went from point to point giving orders, which were carried out carefully. Her step was slow and labored. The silence seemed to Clarinda to presage disaster.
A lean, lank, old man stepped uncertainly from one of the inner rooms, and he gazed helplessly about. His face was drawn, and his appearance betokened sorrow.
The men who worked moved from place to place with noiseless feet. The woman, torn by her emotions, continued her labors. The hall grew into a bower, while the odor from the flowers crept like a blanket over everything.
Clarinda saw the silver things collected upon the tables. Gifts of gold were interspersed. She thought them votive offerings. They sparkled and glistened in the sun which came through the many windows.
Slowly she came down the stairs and stopped in the middle of the hall, and her young, lithe body swayed with emotion.
After she had regained herself she went over to her mother and put her arms around her neck, pressing a kiss upon her cheek. They said nothing. Then she walked over to her father and helped him to a chair, and knelt down beside him.
Her father smoothed her hair with his hand as if to give her courage.
She whispered to him in a shaking voice: “This is joy!”
“It is joy,” he answered simply.
“I am dying!” she exclaimed still whispering. “I am already dead! Look! Look! Father!” She raised her hand and pointed toward the men who moved about. “The men,” she continued, “are decorating the rooms for the corpse. I—I—am the corpse!” and close she shrank to the side of the chair. “My youth is dead!” Clarinda’s eyes filled with tears and her body shook from her emotion.