"Curse you!" groaned the Communist, flinging his arms above his head; "curse a society which lets such things be! curse a religion—"
The policemen dragged him back. "You'd better go, I think, ma'am," said the sergeant: "the man's half crazy with the sun and fighting and grief."
"You are right," said the countess. She stopped at the station-door to put a bill in the policeman's hands: "You will find out about the children and let me know, please."
Mr. Wilder, who had been standing in the doorway, an amazed witness of the whole scene, led her out to the carriage. "He's a bad fellow, that rioter," he said as they drove along.
The countess pulled her cuff over a black mark on her wrist. "No, he is not half a bad fellow," she answered, "but for all that he has murdered his wife."
Nor has she ever changed her opinion on that point; neither, so far as is known, has William Bailey changed his.
Octave Thanet.
AT FRIENDS' MEETING.
Sunshine and shadow o'er unsculptured walls
Hang tremulous curtains, radiant and fair;
The breath of summer perfumes all the air;
Afar the wood-bird trills its tender calls.
More eloquent than chanted rituals,
Subtler than odors swinging censers bear,
Purer than hymn of praise or passionate prayer,
The silence, like a benediction, falls.
The still, slow moments softly slip along
The endless thread of thought: a holy throng
Of memories, long prisoned, find release.
The sacred sweetness of the hour has lent
These quiet faces, calm with deep content,
And one world-weary soul alike, the light of peace.
Susan M. Spalding.