The boxes with the chalk mark on are the ones that's to be buried to-morrow. This man here, miss," holding the lid up, "was a street-car driver; want to see him, mam?"
Penelope's aunt shook her head negatively.
"He struck, and could not get work afterwards, so as he and his family was starvin', he made them one less by committing suicide."
"It is so hard to die," Penelope said with a shudder.
"Hard? Not a bit, miss; death's a great boon to poor people. This 'ere fellow," holding another lid while Penelope gazed with dry, burning eyes down on a weather-beaten face, which, seared with a million premature wrinkles, wore a smile of rest, "he was a tramp, they 'spose. Fell dead on Sixth Avenue, an' he had nothin' on him to identify him. And this 'ere woman who lies next the Park mystery girl, though she do smile like she got somethin' she wanted—an' they nearly
