THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
agitation was gone; she was only tired and listless. Once more she turned toward the sea.
"That's all I wanted to know, sister. Say, ain't I the little old guardian? Think of me being Johnny-on-the-spot that night!" he added, cheerfully.
In spirit, however, he was already wandering through that human hell whose dimensions are in exact ratio to the strength of one's love. William loved deeply, so he went, down deeply. But he knew how to cover up, to hide pain, to jog along without plaint, without hope. Love is only an exalted kind of torture.
