bly as she might, a haunting fear oppressed her, a chill shudder ran through her, as though she had brought something of death back with her from Driebergen, as though its shadow continued to follow her, indoors and out of doors. Was it only because it was raining? . . .
Well, she was glad to be at home, to change her wet things, to slip into a tea-gown and warm herself by the fire. Hark to the wind howling round the house and down the lane, the wind that came tearing on from afar that was far, wide and mysterious, wide and mysterious as the heavens, above houses small as boxes, above people as insects small! . . . How mighty was the wind! . . . How often had she not thus listened to the wind, her mighty Dutch wind, as though it would carry all sorts of things to her . . . or, not heeding her smallness, swoop right down upon her! . . . What calamity was there that could happen? Addie brought home unexpectedly: an accident on his bicycle; run over by a motor-car; murdered? Henri telling her that they were ruined; that he would have to work for his bread: he who had never been able to work after his shattered career? The house on fire, at home . . . or at Mamma's? Mamma dying? . . . Oh, what thoughts of shuddering horror they all were and of sombre misfortune and of death, always death! . . . Something happening to one of
