that?" "A new scenic artist—young, but he's already a power. Joseph Montgomery Green. See, there he is with his mother"
The steadfast lead soldier—the little dancer stretching out her arms to him—but the fire was too much for her; just the tinsel rose was left, and that was as black as a cinder
Mercy! Here was her old wine-red Tennyson, down behind the divan, and as dusty as could be, bulging over a wad of dead flowers. She shook them out and saw a penciled line and a date along the margin:
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
What did the date mean, and why had she marked it, so long ago? She couldn't remember.
Then as her hands pulled out, folded, put away, her mind took on the clairvoyance that sometimes comes with physical exhaustion. The confused thoughts became clear, like the clear crystal a glass blower blows from the boiling mass.
Perhaps Joe is blessed among men, because there is bitter grief in his heart, she thought. Perhaps only those who know grief are truly blessed, are truly alive, kept quick by their pain. Perhaps a heart must be broken before life can wash through it.
She thought of pedple she knew, contented, compla-
