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           Hadanybodyaskedherofwhatshewasthinking,aloneinthegardenoftheCasa,withherhusbandatthemineandthehouseclosedtothestreetlikeanemptydwelling,herfranknesswouldhavehadtoevadethequestion.Ithadcomeintohermindthatforlifetobelargeandfull,itmustcontainthecareofthepastandofthefutureineverypassingmomentofthepresent.Ourdailyworkmustbedonetothegloryofthedead,andforthegoodofthosewhocomeafter.Shethoughtthat,andsighedwithoutopeninghereyes—withoutmovingatall.Mrs.Gould’sfacebecamesetandrigidforasecond,asiftoreceive,withoutflinching,agreatwaveoflonelinessthatsweptoverherhead.Anditcameintohermind,too,thatnoonewouldeveraskherwithsolicitudewhatshewasthinkingof.Noone.Noone,butperhapsthemanwhohadjustgoneaway.No;noonewhocouldbeansweredwithcarelesssincerityintheidealperfectionofconfidence.

           Theword“incorrigible”—awordlatelypronouncedbyDr.Monygham—floatedintoherstillandsadimmobility.IncorrigibleinhisdevotiontothegreatsilverminewastheSenorAdministrador!Incorrigibleinhishard,determinedserviceofthematerialintereststowhichhehadpinnedhisfaithinthetriumphoforderandjustice.Poorboy!Shehadaclearvisionofthegreyhairsonhistemples.Hewasperfect—perfect.