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I heard a
girl tell the other night about breaking in on a wake by chance.
'Weren't we lucky?' she said. 'It was so funny to see the poor people
weeping and drinking whisky at the same time. Isn't it heartless?' Yet
the dead--perhaps the bread-winner of the family, fallen in the
struggle--perhaps the last little comer, not strong enough to fight
this earth's battle--must have lain there in plain view of that girl.
Who was the most heartless? The family and friends who had gathered over
that body, according to their customs, or the party who looked in on
them and laughed?" Peter had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was
talking.
Leonore had listened breathlessly. But the moment he ceased speaking,
she bowed her head and began to sob. Peter came down from his indignant
tirade like a flash. "Miss D'Alloi," he cried, "forgive me. I forgot.
Don't cry so." Peter was pleading in an anxious voice. He felt as if he
had committed murder.
"There, there, Dot. Don't cry. It's nothing to cry about.


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