Chapter 11 - Page 2

but more
calmly, as thrust away under the neglected mound of some unknown
cemetery, where no headstone marked her name, no mourner with
flowers for another grave paused in pity to lay a blossom on hers.
But this vision did not often give Ann Eliza its negative relief;
and always, beneath its hazy lines, lurked the dark conviction that
Evelina was alive, in misery and longing for her.

So the summer wore on. Ann Eliza was conscious that Mrs.
Hawkins and Miss Mellins were watching her with affectionate
anxiety, but the knowledge brought no comfort. She no longer cared
what they felt or thought about her. Her grief lay far beyond
touch of human healing, and after a while she became aware that
they knew they could not help her. They still came in as often as
their busy lives permitted, but their visits grew shorter, and Mrs.
Hawkins always brought Arthur or the baby, so that there should be
something to talk about, and some one whom she could scold.

The autumn came, and the winter. Business had fallen off
again, and but few purchasers came to the little shop in the
basement. In January Ann Eliza pawned her mother's cashmere scarf,
her mosaic brooch, and the rosewood what-not on which the clock had
always stood; she would have sold the bedstead too, but for the
persistent vision of Evelina returning weak and weary, and not
knowing where to lay her head.

The winter passed in its turn, and March reappeared with its
galaxies of yellow jonquils at the windy street corners, reminding
Ann Eliza of the spring day when Evelina had come home with a bunch
of jonquils in her hand. In spite of the flowers which lent such
a premature brightness to the streets the month was fierce and
stormy, and Ann Eliza could get no warmth into her bones.
Nevertheless, she was insensibly beginning to take up the healing
routine of life. Little by little she had grown used to being
alone, she had begun to take a languid interest in the one or two
new purchasers the season had brought, and though the thought of
Evelina was as poignant as ever, it was less persistently in the
foreground of her mind.

Late one afternoon she was sitting behind the counter, wrapped
in her shawl, and wondering how soon she might draw down the blinds
and retreat into the comparative cosiness of the back room. She
was not thinking of anything in particular, except perhaps in a
hazy way of the lady with the puffed sleeves, who after her long
eclipse had reappeared the day before in sleeves of a new cut, and
bought some tape and needles. The lady still wore mourning, but
she was evidently lightening it, and Ann Eliza saw in this the hope
of future orders. The lady had left the shop about an hour before,
walking away with her