went out of doors and smoked their pipes and cigars; they talked about their cows and their crops and their little Ford cars.
When the women finished their work, they all came into the sitting-room. It was not late, for they had eaten at twelve. They pulled up the window-shades, restoring the house once more to its normal aspect. The pale October sun streamed in. Hildegarde sat on the high, old horsehair sofa. There was a fire in the tall, iron stove, and the women drew their chairs into a circle around it. The air was chilly—for the sunshine had been excluded, and the windows had been opened to let out the last faint odors of fading flowers and stagnant air.
The women talked about many things, while Hildegarde listened. At last they talked about the wearing of black.
There were, it seemed, two factions—the women who had modern minds and those who hadn't. Mourning, said the modern group, was out of date. One could wear red or blue or green and mourn, and not make the rest of the world unhappy. Quite surprisingly, it seemed to Hildegarde, Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine sided with this group.
"It would be foolish," Aunt Catherine said, "for the child to put on black. It would make her gloomy."
And Aunt Catherine supplemented this with, "It would be expensive."
Hildegarde's little white face, under its sweeping cloud of dark hair, was troubled. Her thin hands were clasped tight in her lap. "I want to be gloomy," she said. "And I am going to wear black."
They all turned and looked at her, perched on the
