Laura shivered. The constant agony of the world, in its constant search
for all that consoles, all that eases, laid its compelling hand upon her.
By a natural instinct she wrapped her arms closer, more passionately,
round the child upon her knee.

* * * * *

"Won't she come?" said Mason.

He and Seaton were standing in the downstairs parlour of a small house in
a row of workmen's cottages, about half a mile from the steel works.

Mason still showed traces, in look and bearing, of the horror he had
witnessed. But he had sufficiently recovered from it to be conscious into
the bargain of his own personal grievance, of their spoilt day, and his
lost chances. Seaton, too, showed annoyance and impatience; and as Polly
entered the room he echoed Mason's question.

Polly shook her head.

"She says she won't leave the child till the last moment. We must go and
have our tea, and come back for her."

"Come along then!" said Mason gloomily, as he led the way to the door.

The little garden outside, as they passed through it, was crowded with
women discussing the accident, and every now and then a crowd would
gather on the pavement and disperse again. To each and all the speakers,
the one intolerable thing was the total disappearance of the poor lost
one. No body--no clothes--no tangible relic of the dead: it was a sore