little mind of hers from brooding."

In that way Mayme McCartney and I became early morning friends. She
adopted for her special own a bench some rods from mine under the lilac
near the fountain. After her walk, taken with her thin shoulders flung
back and the chest filling with deep, slow breaths, she would pay me a
call or await one from me and we would exchange theories and opinions
and argue about this and other worlds. Seventy against seventeen. Fair
exchange, for, if mine were the riper creed, hers was the more vivid and
adventurous. Who shall say which was the sounder?

On the morning of the astonishing Trespass, I was late, being
discouraged by a light rain. As she approached her bench, she found it
occupied by an individual who appeared to be playing a contributory part
in the general lamentation of nature. The interloper was young and quite
exquisite of raiment, which alone would have marked him for an
outlander. His elbows were propped on his knees, his fists supported his
cheekbones, his whole figure was in a slump of misery. Scrutinizing him
with surprise, Mayme was shocked to see a glistening drop, detached from
his drooping countenance, fall to the pavement, followed by another. At
the same time she heard an unmistakable and melancholic sound.

The benches in Our Square have seen more life than most. They have
cradled weariness of body and spirit; they have assuaged grief and given
refuge to shaking terror, and been visited by Death. They have shivered
to the passion of cursing men and weeping women. But never before had
any of their ilk heard grown young manhood blubber. Neither had Mayme
McCartney. It inspired her with mingled emotions, the most immediate of
which was a desire to laugh.