are those times! Vhere are those customs! I alone am left . . . and the scythe-bearer has forgotten me! . . .”
“Enough, Aunty, not another word,—you should be ashamed to talk that way!” Lucy threatened her.
“Well, may you wear the dress out in health,” the old lady laughed merrily, and from an old habit tapped Lucy’s ear.
In those few days she had found a new life through Lucy. Her soul was like one of those winding plants that grow only when they can climb up something stronger, a tree, a bush, or even a withe. They gently enfold it with their vines, leaves and flowers, running together with it into one inseparable life. A blow that is aimed at one, also reaches the other; with the death of the one, ends also the life of the other.
Even thus Lucy had attracted to herself that weak soul; she held the authority of a mother over the old lady. In the morning she combed her grey hair, put on her cap, and
