certain supports. The girders fortunately had held. A terrible tragedy had been prevented.
"I'm a wash-foot Baptist and I don't believe in Popery,” said Lake, “but, fellers, let's ask them ladies in them air mournin' robes to say a prayer of thanksgiving for the bunch."
The Sisters of Charity did say a prayer, not an audible petition for the ears of men, but a whispered prayer for the ears of God, the Benediction of Thanksgiving, uttered by the Catholic Church through many years, in many tongues and places.
"De profundis," added the silently moving lips of the white-faced nuns. “Out of the depths have we cried unto Thee, Lord. And Thou hast heard our cries."
The motorman was no longer dissatisfied. The conductor's strength had been renewed like the eagle's.
"Boys," drawled Lake, "I'll be damned if I'm goin' to that meetin' to-night."
“Nor me," affirmed Lee Cromarty.
"Nor me," repeated all the others.
The fog still crept from under the bed of the river and down from the lowering hills of West Virginia—dense, tenacious, stealthy, chilling, but from about the hearts and minds of some rough, unlettered men another fog had begun to lift.
