"A neglected poet's who died not long ago. Soon, perhaps, I shall be making one for an old soldier, and one for a holy man, whose soul, I hear, is about to be dismissed."
"Are not some monuments sadder to make than others?"
"Aye, truly."
"What is the saddest you ever made?"
"The saddest monument I ever made was one for a poor mother who had lost her only son. One day a woman came in who had no sooner entered than she sat down and gave way to a passionate outburst of grief."
"'My good woman,' I said, 'why do you weep so bitterly?'
"'Do not call me good,' she moaned, and hid her face.
"I then perceived her fallen character. When she recovered self-control she drew from her sinful bosom an old purse filled with coins of different values.
"'Why do you give me this?' I asked.
"'It is to pay for a monument for my son,' she said, and the storm of her grief swept over her again.