"Well, this was a death: so there was no excuse for her not seeing
it," said Henry Lawford, the host. "No, seriously, Mrs. Green, it was
a splendid instance of personal heroism: a gate-keeper at a railway
crossing in Pennsylvania, perceiving a child of four on the track just
in front of the fast express, rushed forward and managed to snatch up
the little creature and threw it to one side before--poor fellow!--he
was struck and killed. There was no suggestion of counting upon six
per cent there, was there?"

"Unless in another sphere," interjected Caspar Green.

"Don't be sacrilegious, Caspar," pleaded his wife, though she added
her mite to the ripple of laughter that greeted the sally.

"It was superb!--superb!" exclaimed Miss Ann Newbury, a young woman
not far from thirty, with a long neck and a high-bred, pale,
intellectual face. "He is one of the men who make us proud of being
men and women." She spoke with sententious earnestness and looked
across the table appealingly at George Gorham.

"He left seven children, I believe?" said he, with precision.

"Yes, seven, Mr. Gorham--the eldest eleven," answered Mrs. Lawford,
who was herself the mother of five. "Poor little things!"

"I think he made a great mistake," remarked George, laconically.

For an instant there was complete silence. The company was evidently
making sure that it had understood his speech correctly. Then Miss