"Sweet devil—dearest Fra Diavolo!"
Hand clasped in hand they faced each other, and in their eyes there shone reflection of the breaking dawn in Paradise.
"I say, Montagu, I've found something that belongs to you, and had it mended!" Mr. Trotter, bulging with officiousness and fairly fizzing with champagne, came up to them, a newly ironed silk hat extended in his pudgy, well-kept hand.
But Anne and Albert—Fulvia and Fra Diavolo—took no notice.
They had found something that belonged to them—and it was mended.
Dead Singer
By Edgar Daniel Kramer
He is gone
Like the ghost of the dew on the mountain,
Like the dawn
That gleamed a red flame on the fountain.
He has heard
The song of the mystical river
And the bird
That has sung in Saharin for ever.
He was here—
Lo, he was the white-fire bringer!
You drew near
But to mock and revile the sweet singer.
Oh, he came
And he laid his white soul on the altar,
A pale flame
That blazed and knew not how to falter!
Now you mourn—
Far too late is your wailing and weeping;
For your scorn
You have his dead day in your keeping.
