One day after she had arranged
the fall roses she had grown, and some roadside asters she had
gathered in passing, she sat in deep thought, when a car stopped
on the road. Kate looked up to see Robert coming across the
churchyard with his arms full of greenhouse roses. He carried a
big bunch of deep red for her mother, white for Polly, and a large
sheaf of warm pink for Nancy Ellen. Kate knelt up and taking her
flowers, she moved them lower, and silently helped Robert place
those he had brought. Then she sat where she had been, and looked
at him.
Finally he asked: "Still hunting the 'why,' Kate?"
"'Why' doesn't so much matter," said Kate, "as 'where.' I'm
enough of a fatalist to believe that Mother is here because she
was old and worn out. Polly had a clear case of uric poison,
while I'd stake my life Nancy Ellen was gloating over the picture
she carried when she ran into that loose sand. In each of their
cases I am satisfied as to 'why,' as well as about Father. The
thing that holds me, and fascinates me, and that I have such a
time being sure of, is 'where.
Pages:
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572