Now Widow Fortelka had never heard Of Elenor Murray, had not read a line Of Elenor Murray's death beside the river. She was as ignorant of the interview Between the coroner and this editor Who died next morning fearing Merival Would dig up Mrs. Lowell and expose Her suicide, as conferences of spirits Directing matters in another world. Her thought was moulded no less by the riffles That spread from Elenor Murray and her death. And she resolved to see this lawyer Rummler, And try again to get a settlement To help her dying boy. And so she went. That morning Rummler coming into town Had met a cynic friend upon the train Who used his tongue as freely as his mood Moved him to use it. So he said to Rummler: "I see your client died--a hell of a life That fellow lived, a critic in our midst Both hated and caressed. And I suppose You drew his will and know it, I will bet, If he left anything to charity, Or to the city, it is some narcotic To keep things as they are, the ailing body To dull and bring forgetfulness of pain. He was a fine albino of the soul, No pigment in his genesis to give Color to hair or eyes, he had no gonads." And William Rummler laughed and said, "You'll see What Lowell did when I probate the will." Then William Rummler thought that very moment Of plans whereby his legal mind could thrive Upon the building of the big hotel To Lowell's memory, for perpetual use Of the Y. M. C. A., the seminary, too, In Moody's memory for an orthodox Instruction in the bible. With such things In mind, this William Rummler opened the door, And stepped into his office, got a shock From seeing Widow Fortelka on the bench, Where clients waited, waiting there for him. She rose and greeted him, and William Rummler Who in a stronger moment might have said: "You must excuse me, I have told you, madam, I can do nothing for you," let her follow Into his private office and sit down And there renew her suit. She said to him: "My boy is dying now, I think his ribs Were driven in his lungs and punctured them. He coughs the worst stuff up you ever saw. And has an awful fever, sweats his clothes Right through, is breathless, cannot live a month. And I know you can help me. Mr. Lowell, So you told me, refused a settlement, Because this pugilist was never hired To beat my boy, or any boy; for fear It would be an admission, and be talked of, And lead another to demand some money. But now he's dead, and surely you are free To help me some, so that this month or two, While my boy Joe is dying he can have What milk he wants and food, and when he dies, A decent coffin, burial. Then perhaps There will be something left to help me with-- I wash to feed the children, as you know."