She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. "Man, man! You're coming to life. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. The burden of decision had been transferred. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. Only her babe died. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. He could not tell whether she was English or American. But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury.
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