I feel it in my heart."
She paused, and her eyes took on a sombre tone. Presently, with a
slight, husky pain in her voice, like the faint echo of a wail, she went
on: "Now that he's going, I'm glad we've had the things he gave us,
things that can't be taken away from us. What you have enjoyed is yours
for ever and ever. It's memory; and for one moment or for one day or one
year of those things you loved, there's fifty years, perhaps, for memory.
Don't you remember the verses I cut out of the magazine:
"'Time, the ruthless idol-breaker,
Smileless, cold iconoclast,
Though he rob us of our altars,
Cannot rob us of the past.'"
"That's the way your father used to talk," replied her mother. "There's
a lot of poetry in you, Kitty." "More than there is in her?" asked
Kitty, again indicating the region where Mrs. Crozier was.
"There's as much poetry in her as there is in--in me. But she can do
things; that little bit of a babywoman can do things, Kitty. I know
women, and I tell you that if that woman hadn't a penny, she'd set to
and earn it; and if her husband hadn't a penny, she'd make his home
comfortable just the same somehow, for she's as capable as can be.
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