BY ESTHER FORBES
From The Grinnell Review
Down Holly Street the tide had set in for church. It was a proper, dilatory tide. Every silk-
hat glistened, every shoe was blacked, the flowers on the women's hats were as fresh as
the daffodils against the house fronts. Few met face to face, now and then a faster walker
would catch up with acquaintances and join them or, with a flash of raised hat, bow, and
pass on down the stream.
Then the current met an obstacle. A man, young and graceful and very much
preoccupied, walked through the church-goers, faced in the opposite direction. His riding
breeches and boots showed in spite of the loose overcoat worn to cover them. He bowed
continually, like royalty from a landau, almost as mechanically, and answered the
remarks that greeted him.
"Good morning, Mr. Gething. Not going to church this morning." This from a friend of
his mother.
"Good morning. No, not this morning." He met a chum.
"Well, Geth, don't break your neck."
"I'll put a P.S. on the prayer for you," said the wag.
"Thanks a lot." The wag was always late--even to church on Easter morning. So Gething
knew the tail of the deluge was reached and past. He had the street almost to himself. It
was noticeable that the man had not once called an acquaintance by name or made the
first remark. His answers had been as reflex as his walking. Geth was thinking, and in the
sombre eyes was the dumb look of a pain that would not be told--perhaps he considered it
too slight.
He left Holly Street and turned into Holly Park. Here from the grass that bristled so
freshly, so ferociously green, the tree trunks rose black and damp. Brown pools of water
