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ThestoryofanhourKnowingthatMrs.Mallardwasafflictedwithahearttrouble,greatcarewastakentobreaktoherasgentlyaspossiblethenewsofherhusband'sdeath.ItwashersisterJosephinewhotoldher,inbrokensentences,veiledhintsthatrevealedinhalfconcealing.Herhusband'sfriendRichardswasthere,too,nearher.Itwashewhohadbeeninthenewspaperofficewhenintelligenceoftherailroaddisasterwasreceived,withBrentlyMallard'snameleadingthelistofkilled.Hehadonlytakenthetimetoassurehimselfofitstruthbyasecondtelegram,andhadhastenedtoforestallanylesscareful,lesstenderfriendinbearingthesadmessage.Shedidnothearthestoryasmanywomenhaveheardthesame,withaparalyzedinabilitytoacceptitssignificance.Sheweptatonce,withsudden,wildabandonment,inhersister'sarms.Whenthestormofgriefhadspentitselfshewentawaytoherroomalone.Shewouldhavenoonefollowher.Therestood,facingtheopenwindow,acomfortable,roomyarmchair.Intothisshesank,presseddownbyaphysicalexhaustionthathauntedherbodyandseemedtoreachintohersoul.Shecouldseeintheopensquarebeforeherhousethetopsoftreesthatwereallaquiverwiththenewspringlife.Thedeliciousbreathofrainwasintheair.Inthestreetbelowapeddlerwascryinghiswares.Thenotesofadistantsongwhichsomeonewassingingreachedherfaintly,andcountlesssparrowsweretwitteringintheeaves.Therewerepatchesofblueskyshowinghereandtherethroughthecloudsthathadmetandpiledabovetheotherinthewestfacingherwindow.Shesatwithherheadthrownbackuponthecushionofthechair,quitemotionless,exceptwhenasobcameupintoherthroatandshookher,asachildwhohascrieditselftosleepcontinuestosobinitsdreams.Shewasyoung,withafair,calmface,whoselinesbespokerepressionandevenacertainstrength.Butnowtherewasadullstareinhereyes,whosegazewasfixedawayoffyonderononeofthosepatchesofbluesky.Itwasnotaglanceofreflection,butratherindicatedasuspensionofintelligentthought.Therewassomethingcomingtoherandshewaswaitingforit,fearfully.Whatwasit?Shedidnotknow;itwastoosubtleandelusivetoname.Butshefeltit,creepingoutofthesky,reachingtowardherthroughthesounds,thescents,thecolorthatfilledtheair.Nowherbosomroseandfelltumultuously.Shewasbeginningtorecognizethisthingthatwasapproachingtopossessher,andshewasstrivingtobeatitbackwithherwill-aspowerlessashertwowhiteslenderhandswouldhavebeen.Whensheabandonedherselfalittlewhisperedwordescapedherslightlypartedlips.Shesaiditoverandoverunderherbreath:Free,free,free!Thevacantstareandthelookofterrorthathadfolloweditwentfromhereyes.Theystayedkeenandbright.Herpulsesbeatfast,andthecoursingbloodwarmedandrelaxedeveryinchofherbody.Shedidnotstoptoaskifitwereorwerenotamonstrousjoythatheldher.Aclearandexaltedperceptionenabledhertodismissthesuggestionastrivial.Sheknewthatshewouldweepagainwhenshesawthekind,tenderhandsfoldedindeath;thefacethathadneverlookedsavewithloveuponher,fixedandgrayanddead.Butshesawbeyondthatbittermomentalongprocessionofyearstocomethatwouldbelongtoherabsolutely.Andsheopenedandspreadherarmsouttotheminwelcome.Therewouldbenoonetoliveforherduringthosecomingyears;shewouldliveforherself.Therewouldbenopowerfulwillbendingherinthatblindpersistencewithwhichmenandwomenbelievetheyhavearighttoimposeaprivatewilluponafellow-creature.Akindintentionoracruelintentionmadetheactseemnolessacrimeasshelookeduponitinthatbriefmomentofillumination.Andyetshehadlovedhim-sometimes.Oftenshehadnot.Whatdiditmatter!Whatcouldlove,theunsolvedmystery,countforinfaceofthispossessionofself-assertion,whichshesuddenlyrecognizedasthestrongestimpulseofherbeing!Free!Bodyandsoulfree!shekeptwhispering.Josephinewaskneelingbeforethecloseddoorwithherlipstothekeyhole,imploringforadmission.Louise,openthedoor!Ibeg;openthedoor-youwillmakeyourselfill.Whatareyoudoing,Louise?Forheaven'ssakeopenthedoor.Goaway.Iamnotmakingmyselfill.No;shewasdrinkinginaveryelixiroflifethroughthatopenwindow.Herfancywasrunningriotalongthosedaysaheadofher.Springdays,andsummerdays,andallsortsofdaysthatwouldbeherown.Shebreathedaquickprayerthatlifemightbelong.Itwasonlyyesterdayshehadthoughtwithashudderthatlifemightbelong.Shearoseatlengthandopenedthedoortohersister'simportunities.Therewasafeverishtriumphinhereyes,andshecarriedherselfunwittinglylikeagoddessofVictory.Sheclaspedhersister'swaist,andtogethertheydescendedthestairs.Richardsstoodwaitingforthematthebottom.Someonewasopeningthefrontdoorwithalatchkey.ItwasBrentlyMallardwhoentered,alittletravel-stained,composedlycarryinghisgripsackandumbrella.Hehadbeenfarfromthesceneofaccident,anddidnotevenknowtherehadbeenone.HestoodamazedatJosephine'spiercingcry;atRichards'quickmotiontoscreenhimfromtheviewofhiswife.ButRichardswastoolate.Whenthedoctorscametheysaidshehaddiedofheartdisease-ofjoythatkills.