black satine wrapper, on her ancient cape.
As I watched her out of sight I thought to myself: "Two days, t'ree days, then—holy God! he never work, he git-a drunk, he make-a rough-house, he raise hell."
I was conscious of an intense humor that was so far beyond laughter that it was too deep even for tears. But I felt tears vaguely as I watched the peddler-woman limping up the road.
It was not pathos. It was humor—humor. My emotion was one of vivid pleasure—pleasure at the sight of the woman, and at the telescope valise, and at her conversation supplemented by my own.
This emotion is divine, and I can not grasp it.
As I looked after the Italian peddler-woman it came to me with sudden force that the earth is only the earth, but that it is touched here and there brilliantly with divine fingers.
