then she began talking.

"Life's a rum Go, George!" she began. "Who would have thought, when I
used to darn your stockings at old Wimblehurst, that this would be the
end of the story? It seems far away now--that little shop, his and my
first home. The glow of the bottles, the big coloured bottles! Do you
remember how the light shone on the mahogany drawers? The little
gilt letters! Ol Amjig, and Snap! I can remember it all--bright and
shining--like a Dutch picture. Real! And yesterday. And here we are in
a dream. You a man--and me an old woman, George. And poor little Teddy,
who used to rush about and talk--making that noise he did--Oh!"

She choked, and the tears flowed unrestrained. She wept, and I was glad
to see her weeping.

She stood leaning over the bridge; her tear-wet handkerchief gripped in
her clenched hand.

"Just an hour in the old shop again--and him talking. Before things got
done. Before they got hold of him. And fooled him.

"Men oughtn't to be so tempted with business and things....

"They didn't hurt him, George?" she asked suddenly.

For a moment I was puzzled.

"Here, I mean," she said.

"No," I lied stoutly, suppressing the memory of that foolish injection
needle I had caught the young doctor using.

"I wonder, George, if they'll let him talk in Heaven...."

She faced me. "Oh! George, dear, my heart aches, and I don't know what
I say and do. Give me your arm to lean on--it's good to have you,
dear, and lean upon you.... Yes, I know you care for me. That's why I'm
talking. We've always loved one another, and never said anything about
it, and you understand, and I understand. But my heart's torn to pieces
by this, torn to rags, and things drop out I've kept in it. It's true he
wasn't a husband much for me at the last. But he was my child, George,
he was my child and all my children, my silly child, and life has
knocked him about for me, and I've never had a say in the matter; never
a say; it's puffed him up and smashed him--like an old bag--under my
eyes. I was clever enough to see it, and not clever enough to prevent
it, and all I could do was to jeer. I've had to make what I could of
it. Like most people. Like most of us.... But it wasn't fair, George.
It wasn't fair. Life and Death--great serious things--why couldn't they
leave him alone, and his lies and ways? If WE could see the lightness of
it--

"Why couldn't they leave him alone?" she repeated in a whisper as we
went towards t