Beyond these bare facts he had never thought to
inquire. These people and their doings were outside of his world.
Besides, the book and the cheery room were awaiting his return. But
the reading did not get on well. The tolling bell broke in upon it
and brought before his mind the picture of a little girl wandering
about in the storm and crying for her mother. He tried to argue with
himself that these Norwegians did not belong in his class, and that
they ought to look after their own children. He was under no
obligations to them--in fact, did not even know them. They had no
right, therefore, to break in upon the serenity of his evening.
But the bell tolled on. If he could have wrenched the clapper from
out that bell, the page of his book might not have blurred before his
eyes. As the wind moaned about the house he thought he heard a child
crying, and started to his feet. It was inconceivable, he argued,
that he, a grown man, should permit such incidental matters in life
to so disturb his composure. There were scores, perhaps hundreds, of
children lost somewhere in the world, for whom regiments of people
were searching, and bells were tolling, too.
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