What
if--the idea went through my mind with the intensity of sudden
pain--what if Jim and Lisbeth--? The sound of sobbing broke in upon my
reverie. Con Darton was delivering the funeral oration.
"My friends," I heard him saying through the streams of thought that
encompassed me, "we are here out of respect for a woman all of ye
knew,--and whose life--and whose character--ye all--knew." He paused to
give more weight to what he was about to say. "Margaret Carn was like
the rest of us. She had her qualities--and she had her--failings. I want
to say to you today that there's a time fur knowing these things--and a
time fur--forgettin' them." His voice on the last words dropped abruptly
away. There was the sound of rain spattering among the loosened lumps of
clay. "Such a time is now." His left hand dropped heavily to his side.
"I tell you there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who
repenteth than over ninety-and-nine--"
I grabbed Jim's arm to assure myself of something warm and human. But
his eyes were still fixed on Lisbeth, whose gaze was in turn riveted on
her father's face. It occurred to me with a swift sense of helplessness
that she and I were probably the only two who could even vaguely realize
any of the inner motives of Con Darton's mind, as we certainly were the
only persons who knew how great a wrong had been done to Margaret Carn's
memory that day.
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