And all these thoughts Coming on Gregory Wenner swept his soul Till it seemed like a skiff in mid-sea under A sky unreckoning, where neither bread, Nor water, save salt water, were for lips. And over him descended a blank light Of life's futility, since now this hour Life dropped the mask and showed him just a skull. And a strange fluttering of the nerves came on him, So that he clutched the window frame, lest he Spring from the window to the street below. And he was seized with fear that said to fly, Go somewhere, find some one, so to draw out This madness which was one with him and in him, And which some one in pity must relieve, Something must cure. And in this sudden horror Of self, this ebbing of the tides of life, Leaving his shores to visions, where he saw Horrible creatures stir amid the slime, Gregory Wenner hurried from the room And walked the streets to find his thought again Wherewith to judge if he should kill himself Or look to find a path in life once more. And Gregory Wenner sitting in his club Wrote to his brother thus: "I cannot live Now that my business is so tangled up, Bury my body by my father's side." Next day the papers headlined Gregory Wenner: "Loss of a building drives to suicide." * * * * * Elenor Murray's death kills Gregory Wenner And Gregory Wenner dying make a riffle In Mrs. Wenner's life--reveals to her A secret long concealed:-- MRS. GREGORY WENNER Gregory Wenner's wife was by the sea When Gregory Wenner killed himself, half sick And half malingering, and otiose. She wept, sent for a doctor to be braced, Induced a friend to travel with her west To bury Gregory Wenner; did not know That Gregory Wenner was in money straits Until she read the paper, or had lost His building in the loop. The man had kept His worries from her ailing ears, was glad To keep her traveling, or taking cures. She came and buried Gregory Wenner; found His fortune just a shell, the building lost, A little money in the bank, a store Far out on Lake Street, forty worthless acres In northern Indiana, twenty lots In some Montana village. Here she was, A widow, penniless, an invalid. The crude reality of things awoke A strength she did not dream was hers. And then She went to Gregory Wenner's barren office To collect the things he had, get in his safe For papers and effects. She had to pay An expert to reveal the combination, And throw the bolts. And there she sat a day, And emptied pigeon holes and searched and read. And in one pigeon hole she found a box, And in the box a lock of hair wrapped up In tissue paper, fragrant powder lying Around the paper--in the box a card With woman's writing on it, just the words "For my beloved"; but no name or date.