"Something pious," Joanna answered with an ugly little laugh, "since
we want our dinner. The public has still enough honesty left to pity
piety." She stepped out into the middle of the street, facing her
sisters' windows, and began, the man's voice chiming in at the third
bar--

"In the sweet by-and-bye
We shall meet on that be-yeautiful shore." . . .



PSYCHE.


"_Among these million Suns how shall the strayed Soul find her way
back to earth?_"

The man was an engine-driver, thick-set and heavy, with a short beard
grizzled at the edge, and eyes perpetually screwed up, because his
life had run for the most part in the teeth of the wind. The lashes,
too, had been scorched off. If you penetrated the mask of oil and
coal-dust that was part of his working suit, you found a
reddish-brown phlegmatic face, and guessed its age at fifty.
He brought the last down train into Lewminster station every night at
9.45, took her on five minutes later, and passed through Lewminster
again at noon, on his way back with the Galloper, as the porters
called it.

He had reached that point of skill at which a man knows every pound
of metal in a locomotive; seemed to feel just what was in his engine