ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS

protruded into the room, the boy sat struggling
with a knife and a piece of whitewood. He was
almost hidden in the shadow. It was half-past
four. They had but to await the father's coming to
begin tea. As the mother watched her son's sullen
little struggle with the wood, she saw herself in his
silence and pertinacity ; she saw the father in her
child's indifference to all but himself. She seemed
to be occupied by her husband. He had probably
gone past his home, slunk past his own door, to
drink before he came in, while his dinner spoiled and
wasted in waiting. She glanced at the clock, then
took the potatoes to strain them in the yard. The
garden and fields beyond the brook were closed in
uncertain darkness. When she rose with the sauce
pan, leaving the drain steaming into the night behind
her, she saw the yellow lamps were lit along the
high road that went up the hill away beyond the
space of the railway lines and the field.

Then again she watched the men trooping home,
fewer now and fewer.

Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was
dark red. The woman put her saucepan on the
hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of
the oven. Then she stood unmoving. Directly,
gratefully, came quick young steps to the door.
Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a little
girl entered and began pulling off her outdoor
things, dragging a mass of curls, just ripening from
gold to brown, over her eyes with her hat.

Her mother chid her for coming late from school,
and said she would have to keep her at home the
dark winter days.