Once she stopped to pull up some weed
that showed itself still green and arrogant, spilling its seeds from
yellowing pods among the frosted flowers; and once she picked, and put
into the bosom of her dress, a little belated monthly rose, warm and
pink at the heart, but with blighted outer petals. She found it
impossible to pursue any one line of thought to its logical outcome;
her mind flew like a shuttlecock between a dozen plans for William
King's defeat. "Oh, I must decide on something!" she thought,
desperately. But the futile morning passed without decision. After
dinner she went resolutely into the parlor, and sitting down on her
little low chair, pressed her fingers over her eyes to shut out any
possible distractions. "Now," she said, "I will make up my mind."
A bluebottle fly buzzing up and down the window dropped on the sill,
then began to buzz again. Through the Venetian blinds the sunshine
fell in bars across the carpet; she opened her eyes and watched its
silent movement,--so intangible, so irresistible; the nearest line
touched her foot; her skirt; climbed to her listless hands; out in the
hall the clock slowly struck three; her thoughts blurred and ran
together; her very fears seemed to sink into space and time and
silence. The sunshine passed over her lap, resting warm upon her
bosom; up and up, until, suddenly, like a hot finger, it touched her
face.
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