In that enormous silence, where pain and darkness met, some birds were waking. It was October. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. Eliza straightened out Ben’s limbs, and folded his hands across his body. She smoothed out the rumpled covers of the bed, and patted out the pillows, making a smooth hollow for his head to rest in. His flashing hair, cropped close to his well-shaped head, was crisp and crinkly as a boy’s, and shone with bright points of light. With a pair of scissors, she snipped off a little lock where it would not show.
“Grover’s was black as a raven’s without a kink in it. You’d never have known they were twins,” she said.
They went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Well, Eliza,” said Gant, calling her by name for the first time in thirty years, “you’ve had a hard life. If I’d acted different, we might have got along together. Let’s try to make the most of what time’s left. Nobody is blaming you. Taking it all in all, you’ve done pretty well.”
“There are a great many things I’d like to do over again,” said Eliza gravely. She shook her head. “We never know.”
“We’ll talk about it some other time,” said Helen. “I guess every one is worn out. I know I am. I’m going to get some sleep. Papa, go on to bed, in heaven’s name! There’s nothing you can do now. Mama, I think you’d better go, too—”
“No,” said Eliza, shaking her head. “You children go on. I couldn’t sleep now anyway. There are too many things to do. I’m going to call up John Hines now.”
’Tell him, “ said Gant,”to spare no expense. I’ll foot the bills."
“Well,” said Helen, “whatever it costs, let’s give Ben a good funeral. It’s the last thing we can ever do for him. I want to have no regrets on that score.”
