Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. "You are not. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. And after that Alice became remoter than ever, and, after a time, ill. That is easy. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant.
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