. .
He was startled to hear a moan, a sob. . . . Then he recognized dully
that they were his own, that he had been accompanying his reflections
with groans of grief.
His wife was still at his feet, kneeling, alone with her heartbreak,
fixing her dry eyes on the cross with a gaze of hypnotic tenacity.
. . . There was her son near her knees, lying stretched out as she had
so often watched him when sleeping in his cradle! . . . The father's
sobs were wringing her heart, too, but with an unbearable depression,
without his wrathful exasperation. And she would never see him again!
. . . Could it be possible! . . .
Chichi's presence interrupted the despairing thoughts of her parents.
She had run to the automobile, and was returning with an armful of
flowers. She hung a wreath on the cross and placed a great spray of
blossoms at the foot. Then she scattered a shower of petals over the
entire surface of the grave, sadly, intensely, as though performing
a religious rite, accompanying the offering with her outspoken
thoughts--"For you who so loved life for its beauties and pleasures!
. . . for you who knew so well how to make yourself beloved!" . . . And
as her tears fell, her affectionate memories were as full of admiration
as of grief. Had she not been his sister, she would have liked to have
been his beloved.
And having exhausted the rain of flower-petals, she wandered away so as
not to disturb the lamentations of her parents.
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