the spoke of a truck wheel, so quickly she went down.

It was almost a miracle, her kind of death, because out of all that jam
of tonnage she carried only one bruise, a faint one, near the brow.

And the wonder was that Louis Latz, in his grief, was so proud.

"To think," he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the way
his face twisted--"to think they should have happened to me. Two such
women in one lifetime as my little mother--and her. Fat little old Louis
to have had those two. Why, just the memory of my Carrie--is almost
enough. To think old me should have a memory like that--it is almost
enough--isn't it, Alma?"

She kissed his hand.

That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it,
her throat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of Leo
Friedlander.

He held her close--very, very close. "Why, sweetheart," he said, "I
could cut out my heart to help you! Why, sweetheart! Shh-h-h! Remember
what Louis says. Just the beautiful memory--of--her--is--wonderful--"

"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it, too--of her--my
mamma--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"

"Always," he said when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough.

"Say--it again--Leo."