dal, for the
man was holy, and the girl, as many women said, was probably evil
altogether. At the graves, when the minister's people saw what was
being done, they piously protested; but the Factor, to whom Pierre had
whispered a word, answered them gravely that the matter should go
on: since none knew but the woman was as worthy of heaven as the man.
Wendling chanced to stand beside Pretty Pierre.

"Who knows!" he said aloud, looking hard at the graves, "who knows!...
She died before him, but the dead can strike."

Pierre did not answer immediately, for the Factor was calling the earth
down on both coffins; but after a moment he added: "Yes, the dead can
strike." And then the eyes of the two men caught and stayed, and they
knew that they had things to say to each other in the world.

They became friends. And that, perhaps, was not greatly to Wendling's
credit; for in the eyes of many Pierre was an outcast as an outlaw.
Maybe some of the women disliked this friendship most; since Wendling
was a handsome man, and Pierre was never known to seek them, good or
bad; and they blamed him for the other's coldness, for his unconcerned
yet respectful eye.

"There's Nelly Nolan would dance after him to the world's end," said
Shon McGann to Pierre one day; "and the Widdy Jerome herself, wid her
flamin' cheeks and the wild fun in her eye, croons like a babe at the
breast as he slides out his cash on the bar; and over on Gansonby's Flat
there's--"

"There's many a fool, 'voila,'" sharply interjected Pierre, as he pushed
the needle through a button he was sewing on his coat.

"Bedad, there's a pair of fools here, anyway, I say; for the women might
die without lift at waist or brush of lip, and neither of ye'd say,
'Here's to the joy of us, goddess, me own!'"

Pierre seemed to be intently watching the needlepoint as it pierced up
the button-eye, and his reply was given with a slowness corresponding
to the sedate passage of the needle. "Wendling, you think, cares nothing
for women? Well, men who are like that cared once for one woman, and
when that was over--But, pshaw! I will not talk. You are no thinker,
Shon McGann. You blunder through the world. And you'll tremble as much
to a woman's thumb in fifty years as now."

"By the holy smoke," said Shon, "though I tremble at that, maybe, I'll
not tremble, as Wendling, at nothing at all." Here Pierre looked up
sharply, then dropped his eyes on his work again. Shon lapsed suddenly
in