“How do you know she’s coming?”

“I heard from her.”

(I wondered what she did with the letter, because I certainly never got hold of it.)

“She phoned this morning and said it would be all right. Well, of course, I couldn’t have been happier, a daughter of Bernice’s, and devoted. The poor thing has a silent nature, but she’s pretty as can be and waits on her mother hand and foot. But of course, you probably know the whole story!”

“Oh, no!” I said. “I mean, it doesn’t happen too often, just now and then.”

I suppose when a person plans to die soon, he gets to where he does all kind of unscrupulous stunts, because nothing matters any more.

The following morning, the third of July, was a perfect summer morning, the kind that reminds a grown-up person of his long-ago summers of childhood, of days in which the blue of sky seemed almost within reach, songs of birds bore secret and promiseful meanings, the sun touched the air with a kind of warm sugariness, and the planet earth was one enormous ripe plum. On such a day everyone will find an excuse to go outdoors: lawn mowers clattered on Seminary Street, children played games on the sidewalks, there was much traipsing from house to house on dreamed-up missions; a sudden happy rash of tree pruning, porch sitting, and automobile washing brought forth people whom one had not seen outdoors since the previous fall.

Even Ralph Williams, an indoors person by nature, wandered outside after breakfast on the pretext of deciding whether or not the house needed a paint job. Annabel found old vases in the cellar and filled them with roses and delphinium; these she distributed throughout the house.

Altogether, on this day of the visitor from Toledo, there was in the world a beauty so keen and simple that it was akin to sadness. But while the beauty was remarked upon by nearly everyone you met, the sadness was a kind of secret that no one mentioned at all.

At noon, Clinton Williams stationed himself, pajama-clad, at the window of Berry-berry’s room, which looked out over the front lawn and street. From this vantage point, he awaited the arrival of Echo O’Brien.

At about ten minutes after the hour, in front of the house across the street, Clinton saw the porch swing come to a halt, and the man and woman seated there leaned forward and stared up the street. “Helen Mae!” the woman called over her shoulder. “Come here! Quick!” And immediately another woman came onto the porch and joined in the staring. Two doors up the street a gang of children called a recess in their game and stared at the same phenomenon. Now all of these people looked on with respect and awe as a magnificent old automobile rolled importantly into view and came to a smooth stop in front of the Williamses’ house. Polished to a flawless black, this stately car, high and proud and long, with its dignified fenders and long rubber-carpeted running boards, made other cars on the street seem frivolous with their weird balloon shapes and all-day-sucker colors. Eccentric only by reason of age and size, this strange car, with accents of silver glistening in the spokes of its wheels, its bumpers and headlights, gave an impression of overwhelming elegance.