Long before the service was to begin, people stopped by—partly out of curiosity. The florist drove up with innumerable baskets and vases of flowers, and these were discreetly commented upon as they were taken out one by one and carried through the cruel icy air. But the village, usually so taciturn, a village where people did not pay calls often or exchange many words with each other, now seemed to have opened itself to the heart. There would be no eulogy at the service, but Jane’s name was on every tongue. Dinnock was two hours late with the mail, because at every door or mailbox someone wanted to speak of Jane. It seemed as if each person had a special memory that he or she wanted to share. One remembered bird walks when he was a small boy in school, another remembered going berrying and how they had seen four bluebirds on a sumac bush, another that she had scolded him for shooting woodcock.

“The village just won’t be the same without her,” they said. And they got into cars and drove up the steep hill to the house to pay their respects to Hannah, and to comfort her.

But Hannah did not need comfort now. She was in her glory; dressed in a black suit, a white blouse, she held court in the empty house, served cups of coffee, sat down with her friends and with Jane’s friends, and talked incessantly, as if she had held back this torrent of words for years. Over and over she told Christina and Ellen and Jem and Eben—the world at large—how Jane had failed, how gently she had ebbed away, what a saint she was, how she loved to laugh, how the last thing she recognized at all was an evening grosbeak at the feeder, how she had asked for a cup of strong coffee that day but fell asleep before Hannah brought it in.

No one sat in Jane’s chair. It stood there, empty, in the window, the presence that had sat there for so many years looking out with such seeing eyes still vivid, still a presence to be reckoned with.

John had arrived by eleven and went straight to the house alone. Fortunately, there was no one but Hannah there when he pushed open the door, as if he had been running and must get there in time—in time for what? The emptiness hit him like a slap in the face. The man in his fifties who had always been a boy here sat down once more in the little chair in front of the rocker with his head in his hands. And Hannah, for once, was silent. She went into the kitchen to cry.