Paul thought it would never be got out of the room again.

His mother was stroking the polished wood.
They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillside that looks over the fields at the big church and the houses.

It was sunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth.
Mrs.Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her old bright interest in life.

She remained shut off.

All the way home in the train she had said to herself: "If only it could have been me!" When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day's work done, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron.