The Connecticut labor press., 1919-12-06

l what she said and not. realizing Ia
 what 1t committed him.
 He began to realize 1t now, as he
 wondered about the dismantled house
 he was far from sure that he was
 willing to live in a "three-room apart ment" with Fanny and eat breakfast
 and lunch with her (prepared by her.
 self in the "kitchenette') and dinner
 at the table d'hote n "such a pretty
 Colonial dining room" (so Fanny de
 scribed ft) at little round table they
 would have all to themselves in the
 midst of a dozen little round tables
 which other relics of disrupted fam
 lilies would have all to themselves. For
 the first time, now that the change
 was imminent, George began to devel- CD before his minds eye pictures of Vbat he was in for; and they appalled, Llm. He decided that such life v"~ged upon the sheerly unbearable. and that after all there were some things left that he just couldn't stand. So he made up his mind to speak to his aunt about it at dinner" and tell her that he preferred to ask Bronson 10 let him put sofa-bed, trunk and folding rubber bathtub behind n screen, in the dark rear room of the of fee. ~---. -G.f .--
 But at dinner Fanny was nerv- ous. and so distressed about the faiI- ure of her efforts with sweetbreads and macaroni; and she was so eager in her talk of how comfortable they would be ''by this time tomorrow night ' ., ~; .-s t-;C
 After dinner" he went upstairs, moving his hand slowly along the smooth h0 walnut railing of the balus- trade. Half way to the landing he stopped, turned, and stood looking down at the heavy doors masking the black emptiness: that had been, the library. Here he had stood on what he now knew was the worst day of hIs life; here he had stood when his moth- CT passed through that doorway, hand in-hand with her brother, to learn what her son had done. --.. -
 He went on more heavily, more slow ly; and, more heavily and slowly still, entered IsabePs room and shut the dcor. He did not come forth again, aud bade. Fanny goodnight through the closed door when she stopped out side 1t later. .-. :-s ,.-|
 i've put all the lights out, George" she said. 'Everything's all right"
 Every we'll" he called. Good night, Aunt Fanny"
 His voice had strangled sound in spite of him; but she seemed not to notice it, and he heard her go to her in x1,ffh bolt and key against burglars. She had said the one thing she should not have said just then: "Tm sure your mothers watching over you, Georgie." She had meant to be kind, but 1t de stroyed his last chance for sleep that night. He would have slept little if she had not said it. but since she had said 1t he did not sleep at all. For he knew that it was true-if it could be true-that his mother, If she still lived in spirit, would be weeping on the other side of the wall of silence, weep ing and seeking: for some gate to let 1 her through. so that she could come and watch over him."
 He felt that if there were such gates 1 they were surely barred: they were 1 like those awful library doors down, stairs, which had shut her in to begin l the suffering, to which he had con signed her. l
 The room was still Isabel's. Moth l ing had been changed: even the pho tographs of George, of the Major and l of brother George" still stood on her | dressing table, and in a drawer of her desk was an old picture of Eugene and | Lucy, taken together, which George had found but had slowly closed away | again from sight, not touching it. To morrow everything would be gone; and he had heard there was not long | to wait before the house itself would | be demolished. The very space which tonight was still Isabel's room would | be cut into new shapes by new walls and floors and ceilings; yet the room would always live, for it could not die out of Georges memory. It would live as long as he did, and it would always be murmurous with a tragic, wtstful l 
 CTO BE CONTINUED.)
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