this sister, when she was a little girl. Her name was Mary, and one day
every week his mother sent him to trim the mound. He did not remember
when it began--he must have been very small. He had to trim the grass,
and in summer to water it so as to keep it always smooth and fresh and
green.

Before he had finished his story the other little fellow, who was not
interested in it and was getting tired again, began in a low voice to
mock at his companion, repeating his words after him. Then my little
fellow, with a very serious, resolute air, put the scissors down, and
in a moment they were both up and away, doubling this way and that,
bounding over the mounds, like two young dogs at play, until, rolling
over together, they fought again in the grass. There I left them and
strolled away, thinking of the mother busy and cheerful in her cottage
over there in the village, but always with that image of the little
girl, dead these twenty years, in her heart.




XXV

HOMELESS


One cold morning at Penzance I got into an omnibus at the station to
travel to the small town of St. Just, six or seven miles away. Just
before we started, a party of eight or ten queer-looking people came
hurriedly up and climbed to the top seats. They were men and women,
with two or three children, the women carelessly dressed, the men