By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed through her tears. Her face was all gladness.
“A new—comedian—discovered,” she repeated. “Ah, Tom, at last! That is what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a—great—hit—Tom—”
The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred in the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a boy's voice, “Morning papers.” Mogley was weeping.
The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile.
V. — OUT OF HIS PAST
This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not more than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me.
What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He looked toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks forward to the day.
He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. “I have put the past behind me,” he said. And he thought it would stay there.