oking with womanly
pity at that little girl, and at the man, who seemed sunk into the depths
of despair.

Peterson followed her compassionate glance. "Ah," he explained, "it's a
chap who came up from Paila a little while back. He had his wife with him.
She was dying, and she wanted to be buried in Texas. I believe he's in
some sort of business down in Paila."

The spirit of compassion surrounded Sylvia like a halo. She had just noted
that the little girl was making a stupendous effort to conquer her sobs,
to "be good," as children say. With a heroic resolve which would have been
creditable to a Joan of Arc, the little thing suddenly began to try to eat
from one of the dishes, but her hands trembled so that she was quite
helpless. Her efforts seemed about to suffer a final collapse.

And then Sylvia pushed her chair back and arose. There was a tremulous
smile on her lips as she crossed the room. She paused by that man with
crape on his sleeve. "I wonder if you won't let me help," she said. Her
voice would have made you think of rue, or of April rain. She knelt beside
the child's chair and possessed herself of a tiny hand with a persuasive
gentleness that would have worked miracles. Her face was uplifted, soft,
beaming, bright. She was scarcely prepared for the passionate outburst of
the child, who suddenly flung forth eager hands with a cry of surrender.
Sylvia held the convulsed body against her breast, tucking the distorted
face up under her chin. "There!" she soothed, "there!" She carried her
charge out of the room without wasting words. She had observed that when
the child came to her the man had seemed on the point of surrender, too.
With an effort he had kept himself inert, with a wan face. He had the
dubious, _sounding_ expression of one who stands at a door with his back
to the light and looks out into the dark.

Before she had brought the child back, washed and comforted, to help her
with her food, Peterson had forgotten the interruption entirely. Taking
advantage of Sylvia's absence (as if she had been an interfering factor in
the meeting, but scarcely a third person), he turned keen eyes upon
Harboro. "Old Harboro!" he said affectionately and musingly. Then he
seemed to be swelling up, as if he were a mobile vessel filled with water
that had begun to boil. He became as red as a victim of apoplexy. His eyes
filled with an unholy mirth, his teeth glistened. His voice was a mere
wheeze, issuing from a cataclys