shuddering. He did not heed her. The passion of the man, the
terrible pity for these people, came out of his soul now,
writhing his face, and dulling his eyes.

"And you," he said, savagely, "you sit by the road-side, with
help in your hands, and Christ in your heart, and call your life
lost, quarrel with your God, because that mass of selfishness has
left you,--because you are balked in your puny hope! Look at
these women. What is their loss, do you think? Go back, will
you, and drone out your life whimpering over your lost dream, and
go to Shakspeare for tragedy when you want it? Tragedy! Come
here,--let me hear what you call this."

He led her through the passage, up a narrow flight of stairs. An
old woman in a flaring cap sat at the top, nodding,--wakening now
and then, to rock herself to and fro, and give the shrill Irish
keen.

"You know that stoker who was killed in the mill a month ago? Of
course not,--what are such people to you? There was a girl who
loved him,--you know what that is? She's dead now, here. She
drank herself to death,--a most unpicturesque suicide. I want
you to look at her. You need not blush for her life of shame,
now; she's dead.--Is Hetty here?"

The woman got up.

"She is, Zur. She is, Mem. She's lookin' foine in her Sunday
suit. Shrouds is gone out, Mem, they say."