Slide to View Image: Opacity 0%
THE WINDOWopen and in they came, fresh as roses, staring, wideawake, as if this coming into the dining-room afterbreakfast, which they did every day of their lives,was a positive event to them, and so on, with onething after another, all day long, until she went upto say good-night to them, and found them nettedin their cots like birds among cherries and rasp-berries, still making up stories about some little bitof rubbish—something they had heard, somethingthey had picked up in the garden. They had all theirlittle treasures. . . . And so she went down and saidto her husband, Why must they grow up and loseit all? Never will they be so happy again. And hewas angry. Why take such a gloomy view of life?he said. It is not sensible. For it was odd; and shebelieved it to be true; that with all his gloom anddesperation he was happier, more hopeful on thewhole, than she was. Less exposed to human wor-ries—perhaps that was it. He had always his workto fall back on. Not that she herself was "pessimis-tic," as he accused her of being. Only she thoughtlife—and a little strip of time presented itself to hereyes—her fifty years. There it was before her—life.Life, she thought—but she did not finish herthought. She took a look at life, for she had a clearsense of it there, something real, something private,which she shared neither with her children nor with91