CHAPTER XI
"The river went weeping, weeping!
Ah me, how it did weep!
But I would never heed it,
The weeping of the river . . .
The stars—poor stars—were weeping
But I would not hear their weeping
Whilst yet I heard thy voice.
Then these, the river with its weeping,
The piteous stars, the miserable men,
All prayed the earth's dark depths to take thee from me,
That so my woe might understand their woe.
And now—I weep."
Mrs. Kent had taken many steps in her quest: own crowded shopping streets, past dime museums and cheap theatres, through the Italian square where intolerable hand-organs played forever "Home, Sweet Home." The cries, the jolting of the wagons, the heavy beat of horses' hoofs, and the sight of great loads of leather, granite, lumber, along the shipping streets, brought her a certain relief. In merely
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