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Updated: May 17, 2025
The striped shades were drawn down to the sills. But he could see the yellowed print of Da Vinci's "Last Supper" the one he had bought at Milan hanging on the panel above the empty hearth. There was the sand-shaker on his maple desk. That old lithograph of the two kittens over beside the bureau was crooked. He must remember to straighten it. The wall-paper was getting dingy. He stretched himself.
The rush and the swing of the long line, the crack of the driver's mighty whip and his warning shouts to "Jack" or "Pete" to pull and keep step, the steady chop-chop thud of the sand-shaker, will be seen and heard no more. In the place of the horse-plough has come the electric sweeper, a less showy but a good deal more effective device. The plough itself is gone.
He saw the lithograph of the two kittens, age-worn and time-blurred, still crooked on the wall beside the bureau; there was the sand-shaker on the maple desk; there hung the yellowed print of the "Last Supper" above the fireplace all stark and ghostly in that uncannily late afternoon light, which not even the morning sun could dispel. He clutched her hand.
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