"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.
He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal
one--exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away on
account of it. "That's a detail," said Craddock.
There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends on
circumstances.
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