a--Louis--waiting--before we get there--Louis."

It was in the tightest tangle of the crossing and apparently on this
conjuring of her husband, that Carrie jerked suddenly free of Alma's
frailer hold.

"No--no--not home--now. Him. Alma!" And darted back against the breast
of the down side of the traffic.

There was scarcely more than the quick rotation of her arm around with
the spoke of a truck wheel, so quickly she went down.

It was almost a miracle, her kind of death, because out of all that jam
of tonnage, she carried only one bruise, a faint one, near the brow.

And the wonder was that Louis Latz in his grief was so proud.

"To think," he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the way
his face twisted, "to think they should have happened to me. Two such
women in one lifetime, as my little mother--and her. Fat little old
Louis to have had those two. Why just the memory of my Carrie--is almost
enough--to think old me should have a memory like that--it is almost
enough--isn't isn't it, Alma?"

She kissed his hand.

That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it, her
throat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of Leo
Friedlander.

He held her close. Very, very close.

"Why sweetheart," he said, "I could cut out my heart to help you. Why,
sweetheart. Shh-h-h, remember what Louis says. Just the beautiful
memory--of--her--is--wonderful--"

"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it too--of her--my
mama--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"

"Always," he said, when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough.

"Say--it again--Leo."

"Always."

She could not know how dear she became to him then, because not ten
minutes before, from the very lapel against which her cheek lay pressed,
he had unpinned a white carnation.

THE LITTLE MASTER OF THE SKY[15]

By MANUEL KOMROFF

(From _The Dial_)

Even idiots it seems have their place and purpose in society, or as a
chess player would say tapping his fingers on the board--"That pawn may
cost you your queen." The little village of M---- only realized this
after it was too late.

The police of M---- all knew that Peter, a half-wit, or "Silly Peter" as
he was called, was perfectly harmless; even though at times he would
litter the streets and market-place with bread crumbs. But the pigeons
of M---- soon cleared the walks.

Peter, it seems, had at an early age dedicated his silly life to the
pigeons.