man, and a like-minded young woman, sitting side by side in a car, in the gloaming, turn toward each other to look over their respective shoulders at a new moon, the tender light of which falls on their upturned faces, the situation becomes such that Cupid is more than likely to kick up his pudgy heels in glee. But on this occasion he never moved a muscle. It was Barry's fault. He simply did not appreciate his privileges and opportunities. In the most matter-of-fact way he turned back, after gazing for a moment on the glimmering crescent, restored the power to his car, and as it shot ahead he quietly remarked:
"I wonder if the moon is really made of green cheese."
"Oh, Barry!" said Miss Chichester. "You impossible man!"
The funeral of John Bradley was conducted in accordance
with the will of his widow. There was no
clergyman there. Nor did any one read the service for
the burial of the dead as authorized by any Church.
Religion had absolutely no part in this final chapter of
the story of a workingman's life and death. It was
Sunday afternoon, the dead man's fellow-workmen
were free to come, and they gathered in large numbers
to pay their tribute to his memory. But this was not
the only purpose of their coming. They desired also
by their presence to manifest their sympathy with his
widow, to emphasize their disapproval of the treatment
he had received from his corporate employer, and from
the court that had sent him away empty handed from
the only tribunal that was supposed to do justice between
man and man. There were few toilers in the
city who had not heard of the misfortunes of the man
now dead, and few who did not believe him to have
been a victim of corporate greed and of a gross miscarriage
of justice.
It was largely in demonstration of their belief that
