“Each day brings its petty dust,
Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.”
One evening when May with heavy clouds and slant rains was making the city as miserable as possible, Ethel had a caller. His card bore a name quite unknown, and his appearance gave no clew to his identity.
“Mr. Edmonds?” she said interrogatively.
“Are you Miss Ethel Rawdon?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Basil Stanhope told me to put this parcel in your hands.”
“Oh, Mr. Stanhope! I am glad to hear from him. Where is he now?”
“We buried him yesterday. He died last Sunday as the bells were ringing for church—pneumonia, miss. While reading the ser-vice over a poor young man he had nursed many weeks he took cold. The poor will miss him sorely.”
“DEAD!” She looked aghast at the speaker, and again ejaculated the pitiful, astounding word.
“Good evening, miss. I promised him to return at once to the work he left me to do.” And he quietly departed, leaving Ethel standing with the parcel in her hands. She ran upstairs and locked it away. Just then she could not bear to open it.