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And the wonder was that Louis Latz, in his grief, was so proud.
"To think," he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the way
his face twisted--"to think they should have happened to me. Two such
women in one lifetime as my little mother--and her. Fat little old Louis
to have had those two. Why, just the memory of my Carrie--is almost
enough. To think old me should have a memory like that--it is almost
enough--isn't it, Alma?"
She kissed his hand.
That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it,
her throat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of Leo
Friedlander.
He held her close--very, very close. "Why, sweetheart," he said, "I
could cut out my heart to help you! Why, sweetheart! Shh-h-h! Remember
what Louis says. Just the beautiful memory--of--her--is--wonderful--"
"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it, too--of her--my
mamma--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"
"Always," he said when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough.


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