B. M. Bower

“ The wagon, rattling over the rough sod, stopped and a girl—Lorena Burkell—jumped down almost before the horses came to a stand and ran to the long, quiet figure in the grass with the two men standing bareheaded beside it. If they looked for weeping they were mistaken; the girl said nothing at all, and only knelt and took the silken covering from the face of her father and laid her cheek tenderly against his. And there was that in the movement more pitiful than loud lamentation, so that Burns turned his face away and blinked rapidly, and Rhody swallowed and bit his lip painfully. ”

“ Don’t grieve so, little girl—you know I loved him, too.”
Lorrie shook her shoulder free of his touch. “Maybe you did—but you needn’t preach now. Go away.” There was no mistaking her tone; if she wanted sympathy it was clearly not the sympathy of her Uncle Howard. And though it was evident that her grief was great, it was also evident that she was one of those self-controlled persons who resent the platitudes common to such occasions, and would much prefer to be left alone. ”

“ Daddy Death has put in his bill, and I ain’t going to whine about paying up.” He moved his head restlessly, and Burns, against whom he was leaning, shifted his shoulders solicitously and shut his teeth tight together; he knew it was the truth Burkell spoke, and it maddened him to think that death is an enemy one cannot fight with a six-shooter, but must stand by and helplessly watch its merciless approach. ”