ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS

A great dread and weariness held her : she was so
unavailing. Her life was gone like this.

" White as milk he is, clear as a twelve-month
baby, bless him, the darling ! " the old mother
murmured to herself. " Not a mark on him, clear
and clean and white, beautiful as ever a child was
made," she murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept
her face hidden.

" He went peaceful, Lizzie -- peaceful as sleep.
Isn't he beautiful, the lamb ? Ay -- he must ha'
made his peace, Lizzie. 'Appen he made it all
right, Lizzie, shut in there. He'd have time. He
wouldn't look like this if he hadn't made his peace.
The lamb, the dear lamb. Eh, but he had a hearty
laugh. I loved to hear it. He had the heartiest
laugh, Lizzie, as a lad ---- "

Elizabeth looked up. The man's mouth was
fallen back, slightly open under the cover of the
moustache. The eyes, half shut, did not show
glazed in the obscurity. Life with its smoky burning
gone from him, had left him apart and utterly alien
to her. And she knew what a stranger he was to
her. In her womb was ice of fear, because of this
separate stranger with whom she had been living as
one flesh. Was this what it all meant -- utter, intact
separateness, obscured by heat of living ? In dread
she turned her face away. The fact was too deadly.
There had been nothing between them, and yet
they had come together, exchanging their nakedness
repeatedly. Each time he had taken her, they had
been two isolated beings, far apart as now. He was
no more responsible than she. The child was like ice
in her womb. For as she looked at the dead man,