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Business Math 11th Edition Cleaves Solutions Manual

Chapter 2 Review of Fractions

Section Exercises
2-1, p. 51
1. proper 2. improper 3. improper 4. proper 5. proper 6. improper
7. 1 57 8. 1 201 9. 1 10. 2 73 11. 2 12. 24 163
7 12 20 21 18 18 7 17 8 16 16 387
20 18 14 16 32
7
1 3 67
5 64
3

1,300 13 3 1,500 3 1 25
13. = =1 phones per person 14. = = 1 phones per person 15. ( 4× 6 ) +1 = 25;
1,000 10 10 1,000 2 2 4

137 7 19
16. ( 5 × 27 ) + 2 = 137; 17. ( 3 × 2 ) + 1 = 7; 18. ( 5 × 3) + 4 = 19;
5 3 5
13 20 12 ÷ 3 4
19. ( 8 × 1) + 5 = 13; 20. ( 3 × 6 ) + 2 = 20; 21. =
8 3 15 ÷ 3 5
12 ÷ 4 3 20 ÷ 4 5 18 ÷ 18 1 24 ÷ 12 2
22. = 23. = 24. = 25. =
20 ÷ 4 5 24 ÷ 4 6 36 ÷ 18 2 36 ÷ 12 3
13 ÷ 13 1 400 million 2 4,000 million 1
26. = 27. = 28. =
39 ÷ 13 3 9,000 million 45 24,000 million 6

29. 1 R15 1 R6 2 R3 2 R0
21 21 ÷ 3 7
21 36 15 21 6 15 36 GCD = 3 = =
21 15 12 6 36 36 ÷ 3 12
15 6 3 0

30. 1 R9 1 R6 1 R3 2 R0
15 15 ÷ 3 5
15 24 9 15 69 36 GCD = 3 = =
15 9 6 6 24 24 ÷ 3 8
9 6 3 0

31. 2 R12 1 R6 2 R0
18 18 ÷ 6 3
18 48 12 18 6 12 GCD = 6 = =
36 12 12 48 48 ÷ 6 8
12 6 0

32. 2 R10 1 R5 2 R0
15 15 ÷ 5 3
15 40 10 15 5 10 GCD = 5 = =
30 10 10 40 40 ÷ 5 8
10 5 0

2 3× 2 6 4 4 × 4 16 4 3 × 4 12
33. = 34. = 35. =
8 16 8 × 2 16 5 20 5 × 4 20 8 32 8 × 4 32

3 5 × 3 15 5 1× 5 5 3 3× 3 9
36. = 37. = 38. =
9 27 9 × 3 27 3 15 3 × 5 15 5 15 5 × 3 15

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Education, Inc. Chapter 2 9

Visit TestBankDeal.com to get complete for all chapters
2-2, p. 59
1 7 2) 6 9 12
1. 2. 3.
9 8 2) 3 9 6
2 5 3) 3 9 3
+ 3) 1 3 1
9 8
5 12 4 1 1 1 1
+ =1 =1
9 8 8 2 2 × 2 × 3 × 3 = 36
8 The LCD is 36.
9
2)12 4 15 5 25 5 15
4. 5. = 6. =
2) 6 2 15 6 30 8 24
3) 3 1 15 7 14 7 14
5) 1 1 5 + =+ + =+
15 30 12 24
1 1 1 39 9 3 29 5
=1 =1 =1
2 × 2 × 3 × 5 = 60 30 30 10 24 24
The LCD is 60.
5 5 5 20 5 20
7. 4 = 4 8. 23 = 23 9. 51 = 51
6 6 12 48 18 72
1 3 7 21 9 27
+7 = +7 + 48 = + 48 + 86 = + 86
2 6 16 48 24 72
8 2 1 41 47
11 = 12 = 12 71 137
6 6 3 48 72
7 7 7 21 5 20
10. 5 = 5 11. = 12. 3 = 3
12 12 8 24 9 36
1 3 3 3 1 3
3 = 3 2 = 2 5 = 5
4 12 24 24 12 36
2 8 1 4 2 24
+2 = +2 + 6 = +6 +2 = +2
3 12 6 24 3 36
18 6 1 28 4 1 47 11
10 = 11 = 11 8 =9 =9 10 = 11
12 12 2 24 24 6 36 36
7 8 3 21
13. 14. 15. =
8 9 4 28
3 2 5 20
− − − =−
8 9 7 28
4 1 6 2 1
= =
8 2 9 3 28
2 4 9 3 6 16
16. 9 = 9 17. 15 = 14 18. 21 = 21 = 20
3 6 9 5 10 10
1 3 7 7 7 7 7
−6 = −6 −12 = − 12 −12 = −12 = − 12
2 6 9 9 10 10 10
1 2 9
3 2 8
6 9 10

10 Chapter 2 Copyright © 2018 Pearson Education, Inc.

 8 32 1 3 27 1 1 6
19. 15 = 15 20. 23 = 23 = 22 21. 8 22. 12 = 11
15 60 8 24 24 3 5 5
5 25 7 14 14 −5 4 4
−7 = −7 − = − = − −7 = −7
12 60 12 24 24 5 5
1
7 13 3 2
8 22 3 4
60 24 5

3 3 5 3 5 3 3
23. 11 + 11 + 18 = 24. 42 + 37 + 12 + 23 =
4 4 8 8 8 8 4
6 6 5 3 5 3 6
11 + 11 + 18 = 42 + 37 + 12 + 23 =
8 8 8 8 8 8 8
17 1
40 = 42 yards 17 1
8 8 114 = 116 feet
8 8
3 3 5 5 5 4 4 4 3 3
25. 10 + 10 + 12 + 12 + 12 26. 4 + 4 + 4 + 7 + 7 =
4 4 8 8 8 5 5 5 8 8
5 1 1 32 32 32 15 15
+12 + 8 + 8 = 4 +4 +4 +7 +7 =
8 2 2 40 40 40 40 40
126 3
6 6 5 5 5 26 = 29 inches
10 + 10 + 12 + 12 + 12 40 20
8 8 8 8 8
5 4 4 40
+12 + 8 + 8 = 84 = 89 feet
8 8 8 8
1 8 1 3 4 3 1
27. 45 − 42 = 44 − 42 = 28. 12 − 10 = 11 − 10 = 1 feet
8 8 8 4 4 4 4
7
2 yards; she can use the fabric.
8
15 5 15 10 5 3 3 6 2 1
29. 13 − 12 = 13 − 12 = 1 feet 30. 8 + 8 = 16 = 17 = 17
16 8 16 16 16 4 4 4 4 2
1 5 9 5 4 1 1 2 1
14 − 12 = 13 − 12 = 1 = 1 feet 36 − 17 = 35 − 17
8 8 8 8 8 2 2 2 2
5 8 5 3 1
14 − 12 = 13 − 12 = 1 feet = 18 inches
8 8 8 8 2
13 5 13 10 3
13 − 12 = 13 − 12 = 1 feet
16 8 16 16 16

2-3, p. 65
1 3
3 4 3 5 1 5 23 35 805 13 3 24
1. × = 2. × = 3. × = = 22 4. × =9
8 5 10 7 6 42 4 9 36 36 8 1
2 1

12 5 1 1
5. 6. 7. 8.
7 3 9 12
1 1 2
4 39 7 3 27 8 5 3 5 4 5
9. 5 = ; 10. 3 = ; 11. ÷ = × = 12. 3 ÷ 9 = 3 × 10 = 2
7 7 39 8 8 27 8 4 8 3 6 5 10 5 9 3
2 1 3

Copyright © 2018 Pearson Education, Inc. Chapter 2 11

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 THE GARDENER

One grave to me was given,

One watch till Judgment Day;
And God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the stone away.

One day in all the years,

One hour in that one day,
His Angel saw my tears,
And rolled the stone away!

Every one in the village knew that Helen Turrell did her duty by all her
world, and by none more honourably than by her only brother’s
unfortunate child. The village knew, too, that George Turrell had tried his
family severely since early youth, and were not surprised to be told that,
after many fresh starts given and thrown away, he, an Inspector of Indian
Police, had entangled himself with the daughter of a retired non-
commissioned officer, and had died of a fall from a horse a few weeks
before his child was born. Mercifully, George’s father and mother were
both dead, and though Helen, thirty-five and independent, might well
have washed her hands of the whole disgraceful affair, she most nobly
took charge, though she was, at the time, under threat of lung trouble
which had driven her to the South of France. She arranged for the
passage of the child and a nurse from Bombay, met them at Marseilles,
nursed the baby through an attack of infantile dysentery due to the
carelessness of the nurse, whom she had had to dismiss, and at last, thin
and worn but triumphant, brought the boy late in the autumn, wholly
restored, to her Hampshire home.
All these details were public property, for Helen was as open as the day,
and held that scandals are only increased by hushing them up. She
admitted that George had always been rather a black sheep, but things
might have been much worse if the mother had insisted on her right to
keep the boy. Luckily, it seemed that people of that class would do
almost anything for money, and, as George had always turned to her in
his scrapes, she felt herself justified—her friends agreed with her—in
cutting the whole non-commissioned officer connection, and giving the
child every advantage. A christening, by the Rector, under the name of
Michael, was the first step. So far as she knew herself, she was not, she
said, a child-lover, but, for all his faults, she had been very fond of
George, and she pointed out that little Michael had his father’s mouth to
a line; which made something to build upon.
As a matter of fact, it was the Turrell forehead, broad, low, and well-
shaped, with the widely-spaced eyes beneath it, that Michael had most
faithfully reproduced. His mouth was somewhat better cut than the
family type. But Helen, who would concede nothing good to his
mother’s side, vowed he was a Turrell all over, and, there being no one to
contradict, the likeness was established.
In a few years Michael took his place, as accepted as Helen had always
been—fearless, philosophical, and fairly good-looking. At six, he wished
to know why he could not call her “Mummy,” as other boys called their
mothers. She explained that she was only his auntie, and that aunties
were not quite the same as mummies, but that, if it gave him pleasure, he
might call her “Mummy” at bedtime, for a pet-name between
themselves.
Michael kept his secret most loyally, but Helen, as usual, explained the
fact to her friends; which when Michael heard, he raged.
“Why did you tell? Why did you tell?” came at the end of the storm.
“Because it’s always best to tell the truth,” Helen answered, her arm
round him as he shook in his cot.
“All right, but when the troof’s ugly I don’t think it’s nice.”
“Don’t you, dear?”
“No, I don’t, and”—she felt the small body stiffen—“now you’ve told, I
won’t call you ‘Mummy’ any more—not even at bedtimes.”
“But isn’t that rather unkind?” said Helen, softly.
“I don’t care! I don’t care! You’ve hurted me in my insides and I’ll hurt
you back. I’ll hurt you as long as I live!”
“Don’t, oh, don’t talk like that, dear! You don’t know what——”
“I will! And when I’m dead I’ll hurt you worse!”
“Thank goodness, I shall be dead long before you, darling.”
“Huh! Emma says, ‘’Never know your luck.’” (Michael had been talking
to Helen’s elderly, flat-faced maid.) “Lots of little boys die quite soon.
So’ll I. Then you’ll see!”
Helen caught her breath and moved towards the door, but the wail of
“Mummy! Mummy!” drew her back again, and the two wept together.

At ten years old, after two terms at a prep. school, something or

somebody gave him the idea that his civil status was not quite regular.
He attacked Helen on the subject, breaking down her stammered
defences with the family directness.
“’Don’t believe a word of it,” he said, cheerily, at the end. “People
wouldn’t have talked like they did if my people had been married. But
don’t you bother, Auntie. I’ve found out all about my sort in English
Hist’ry and the Shakespeare bits. There was William the Conqueror to
begin with, and—oh, heaps more, and they all got on first-rate. ’Twon’t
make any difference to you, my being that—will it?”
“As if anything could——” she began.
“All right. We won’t talk about it any more if it makes you cry.” He
never mentioned the thing again of his own will, but when, two years
later, he skilfully managed to have measles in the holidays, as his
temperature went up to the appointed one hundred and four he muttered
of nothing else, till Helen’s voice, piercing at last his delirium, reached
him with assurance that nothing on earth or beyond could make any
difference between them.
The terms at his public school and the wonderful Christmas, Easter, and
Summer holidays followed each other, variegated and glorious as jewels
on a string; and as jewels Helen treasured them. In due time Michael
developed his own interests, which ran their courses and gave way to
others; but his interest in Helen was constant and increasing throughout.
She repaid it with all that she had of affection or could command of
counsel and money; and since Michael was no fool, the War took him
just before what was like to have been a most promising career.
He was to have gone up to Oxford, with a scholarship, in October. At the
end of August he was on the edge of joining the first holocaust of public-
school boys who threw themselves into the Line; but the captain of his
O.T.C., where he had been sergeant for nearly a year, headed him off and
steered him directly to a commission in a battalion so new that half of it
still wore the old Army red, and the other half was breeding meningitis
through living over-crowdedly in damp tents. Helen had been shocked at
the idea of direct enlistment.
“But it’s in the family,” Michael laughed.
“You don’t mean to tell me that you believed that old story all this time?”
said Helen. (Emma, her maid, had been dead now several years.) “I gave
you my word of honour—and I give it again—that—that it’s all right. It
is indeed.”
“Oh, that doesn’t worry me. It never did,” he replied valiantly. “What I
meant was, I should have got into the show earlier if I’d enlisted—like
my grandfather.”
“Don’t talk like that! Are you afraid of it’s ending so soon, then?”
“No such luck. You know what K. says.”
“Yes. But my banker told me last Monday it couldn’t possibly last
beyond Christmas—for financial reasons.”
“’Hope he’s right, but our Colonel—and he’s a Regular—says it’s going
to be a long job.”
Michael’s battalion was fortunate in that, by some chance which meant
several “leaves,” it was used for coast-defence among shallow trenches
on the Norfolk coast; thence sent north to watch the mouth of a Scotch
estuary, and, lastly, held for weeks on a baseless rumour of distant
service. But, the very day that Michael was to have met Helen for four
whole hours at a railway-junction up the line, it was hurled out, to help
make good the wastage of Loos, and he had only just time to send her a
wire of farewell.
In France luck again helped the battalion. It was put down near the
Salient, where it led a meritorious and unexacting life, while the Somme
was being manufactured; and enjoyed the peace of the Armentières and
Laventie sectors when that battle began. Finding that it had sound views
on protecting its own flanks and could dig, a prudent Commander stole it
out of its own Division, under pretence of helping to lay telegraphs, and
used it round Ypres at large.
A month later, and just after Michael had written Helen that there was
nothing special doing and therefore no need to worry, a shell-splinter
dropping out of a wet dawn killed him at once. The next shell uprooted
and laid down over the body what had been the foundation of a barn
wall, so neatly that none but an expert would have guessed that anything
unpleasant had happened.

By this time the village was old in experience of war, and, English
fashion, had evolved a ritual to meet it. When the postmistress handed
her seven-year-old daughter the official telegram to take to Miss Turrell,
she observed to the Rector’s gardener: “It’s Miss Helen’s turn now.” He
replied, thinking of his own son: “Well, he’s lasted longer than some.”
The child herself came to the front-door weeping aloud, because Master
Michael had often given her sweets. Helen, presently, found herself
pulling down the house-blinds one after one with great care, and saying
earnestly to each: “Missing always means dead.” Then she took her place
in the dreary procession that was impelled to go through an inevitable
series of unprofitable emotions. The Rector, of course, preached hope
and prophesied word, very soon, from a prison camp. Several friends,
too, told her perfectly truthful tales, but always about other women, to
whom, after months and months of silence, their missing had been
miraculously restored. Other people urged her to communicate with
infallible Secretaries of organisations who could communicate with
benevolent neutrals, who could extract accurate information from the
most secretive of Hun prison commandants. Helen did and wrote and
signed everything that was suggested or put before her.
Once, on one of Michael’s leaves, he had taken her over a munition
factory, where she saw the progress of a shell from blank-iron to the all
but finished article. It struck her at the time that the wretched thing was
never left alone for a single second; and “I’m being manufactured into a
bereaved next-of-kin,” she told herself, as she prepared her documents.
In due course, when all the organisations had deeply or sincerely
regretted their inability to trace, etc., something gave way within her and
all sensation—save of thankfulness for the release—came to an end in
blessed passivity. Michael had died and her world had stood still and she
had been one with the full shock of that arrest. Now she was standing
still and the world was going forward, but it did not concern her—in no
way or relation did it touch her. She knew this by the ease with which
she could slip Michael’s name into talk and incline her head to the proper
angle, at the proper murmur of sympathy.
In the blessed realisation of that relief, the Armistice with all its bells
broke over her and passed unheeded. At the end of another year she had
overcome her physical loathing of the living and returned young, so that
she could take them by the hand and almost sincerely wish them well.
She had no interest in any aftermath, national or personal, of the War,
but, moving at an immense distance, she sat on various relief committees
and held strong views—she heard herself delivering them—about the
site of the proposed village War Memorial.
Then there came to her, as next of kin, an official intimation, backed by a
page of a letter to her in indelible pencil, a silver identity-disc, and a
watch, to the effect that the body of Lieutenant Michael Turrell had been
found, identified, and re-interred in Hagenzeele Third Military Cemetery
—the letter of the row and the grave’s number in that row duly given.
So Helen found herself moved on to another process of the manufacture
—to a world full of exultant or broken relatives, now strong in the
certainty that there was an altar upon earth where they might lay their
love. These soon told her, and by means of time-tables made clear, how
easy it was and how little it interfered with life’s affairs to go and see
one’s grave.
“So different,” as the Rector’s wife said, “if he’d been killed in
Mesopotamia, or even Gallipoli.”
The agony of being waked up to some sort of second life drove Helen
across the Channel, where, in a new world of abbreviated titles, she
learnt that Hagenzeele Third could be comfortably reached by an
afternoon train which fitted in with the morning boat, and that there was
a comfortable little hotel not three kilometres from Hagenzeele itself,
where one could spend quite a comfortable night and see one’s grave
next morning. All this she had from a Central Authority who lived in a
board and tar-paper shed on the skirts of a razed city full of whirling
lime-dust and blown papers.
“By the way,” said he, “you know your grave, of course?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Helen, and showed its row and number typed on
Michael’s own little typewriter. The officer would have checked it, out of
one of his many books; but a large Lancashire woman thrust between
them and bade him tell her where she might find her son, who had been
corporal in the A.S.C. His proper name, she sobbed, was Anderson, but,
coming of respectable folk, he had of course enlisted under the name of
Smith; and had been killed at Dickiebush, in early ’Fifteen. She had not
his number nor did she know which of his two Christian names he might
have used with his alias; but her Cook’s tourist ticket expired at the end
of Easter week, and if by then she could not find her child she should go
mad. Whereupon she fell forward on Helen’s breast; but the officer’s
wife came out quickly from a little bedroom behind the office, and the
three of them lifted the woman on to the cot.
“They are often like this,” said the officer’s wife, loosening the tight
bonnet-strings. “Yesterday she said he’d been killed at Hooge. Are you
sure you know your grave? It makes such a difference.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Helen, and hurried out before the woman on the
bed should begin to lament again.

Tea in a crowded mauve and blue striped wooden structure, with a false
front, carried her still further into the nightmare. She paid her bill beside
a stolid, plain-featured Englishwoman, who, hearing her inquire about
the train to Hagenzeele, volunteered to come with her.
“I’m going to Hagenzeele myself,” she explained. “Not to Hagenzeele
Third; mine is Sugar Factory, but they call it La Rosière now. It’s just
south of Hagenzeele Three. Have you got your room at the hotel there?”
“Oh yes, thank you. I’ve wired.”
“That’s better. Sometimes the place is quite full, and at others there’s
hardly a soul. But they’ve put bathrooms into the old Lion d’Or—that’s
the hotel on the west side of Sugar Factory—and it draws off a lot of
people, luckily.”
“It’s all new to me. This is the first time I’ve been over.”
“Indeed! This is my ninth time since the Armistice. Not on my own
account. I haven’t lost any one, thank God—but, like every one else, I’ve
a lot of friends at home who have. Coming over as often as I do, I find it
helps them to have some one just look at the—the place and tell them
about it afterwards. And one can take photos for them, too. I get quite a
list of commissions to execute.” She laughed nervously and tapped her
slung Kodak. “There are two or three to see at Sugar Factory this time,
and plenty of others in the cemeteries all about. My system is to save
them up, and arrange them, you know. And when I’ve got enough
commissions for one area to make it worth while, I pop over and execute
them. It does comfort people.”
“I suppose so,” Helen answered, shivering as they entered the little train.
“Of course it does. (Isn’t it lucky we’ve got window-seats?) It must do or
they wouldn’t ask one to do it, would they? I’ve a list of quite twelve or
fifteen commissions here”—she tapped the Kodak again—“I must sort
them out to-night. Oh, I forgot to ask you. What’s yours?”
“My nephew,” said Helen. “But I was very fond of him.”
“Ah yes! I sometimes wonder whether they know after death? What do
you think?”
“Oh, I don’t—I haven’t dared to think much about that sort of thing,”
said Helen, almost lifting her hands to keep her off.
“Perhaps that’s better,” the woman answered. “The sense of loss must be
enough, I expect. Well, I won’t worry you any more.”
Helen was grateful, but when they reached the hotel Mrs. Scarsworth
(they had exchanged names) insisted on dining at the same table with
her, and after the meal, in the little, hideous salon full of low-voiced
relatives, took Helen through her “commissions” with biographies of the
dead, where she happened to know them, and sketches of their next of
kin. Helen endured till nearly half-past nine, ere she fled to her room.
Almost at once there was a knock at her door and Mrs. Scarsworth
entered; her hands, holding the dreadful list, clasped before her.
“Yes—yes—I know,” she began. “You’re sick of me, but I want to tell
you something. You—you aren’t married are you? Then perhaps you
won’t.... But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to tell some one. I can’t go on any
longer like this.”
“But please——” Mrs. Scarsworth had backed against the shut door, and
her mouth worked dryly.
“In a minute,” she said. “You—you know about these graves of mine I
was telling you about downstairs, just now? They really are
commissions. At least several of them are.” Her eye wandered round the
room. “What extraordinary wall-papers they have in Belgium, don’t you
think?... Yes. I swear they are commissions. But there’s one, d’you see,
and—and he was more to me than anything else in the world. Do you
understand?”
Helen nodded.
“More than any one else. And, of course, he oughtn’t to have been. He
ought to have been nothing to me. But he was. He is. That’s why I do the
commissions, you see. That’s all.”
“But why do you tell me?” Helen asked desperately.
“Because I’m so tired of lying. Tired of lying—always lying—year in
and year out. When I don’t tell lies I’ve got to act ’em and I’ve got to
think ’em, always. You don’t know what that means. He was everything
to me that he oughtn’t to have been—the one real thing—the only thing
that ever happened to me in all my life; and I’ve had to pretend he
wasn’t. I’ve had to watch every word I said, and think out what lie I’d
tell next, for years and years!”
“How many years?” Helen asked.
“Six years and four months before, and two and three-quarters after. I’ve
gone to him eight times, since. To-morrow’ll make the ninth, and—and I
can’t—I can’t go to him again with nobody in the world knowing. I want
to be honest with some one before I go. Do you understand? It doesn’t
matter about me. I was never truthful, even as a girl. But it isn’t worthy
of him. So—so I—I had to tell you. I can’t keep it up any longer. Oh, I
can’t!”
She lifted her joined hands almost to the level of her mouth, and brought
them down sharply, still joined, to full arms’ length below her waist.
Helen reached forward, caught them, bowed her head over them, and
murmured: “Oh, my dear! My dear!” Mrs. Scarsworth stepped back, her
face all mottled.
“My God!” said she. “Is that how you take it?”
Helen could not speak, the woman went out; but it was a long while
before Helen was able to sleep.

Next morning Mrs. Scarsworth left early on her round of commissions,

and Helen walked alone to Hagenzeele Third. The place was still in the
making, and stood some five or six feet above the metalled road, which it
flanked for hundreds of yards. Culverts across a deep ditch served for
entrances through the unfinished boundary wall. She climbed a few
wooden-faced earthen steps and then met the entire crowded level of the
thing in one held breath. She did not know that Hagenzeele Third
counted twenty-one thousand dead already. All she saw was a merciless
sea of black crosses, bearing little strips of stamped tin at all angles
across their faces. She could distinguish no order or arrangement in their
mass; nothing but a waist-high wilderness as of weeds stricken dead,
rushing at her. She went forward, moved to the left and the right
hopelessly, wondering by what guidance she should ever come to her
own. A great distance away there was a line of whiteness. It proved to be
a block of some two or three hundred graves whose headstones had
already been set, whose flowers were planted out, and whose new-sown
grass showed green. Here she could see clear-cut letters at the ends of the
rows, and, referring to her slip, realised that it was not here she must
look.
A man knelt behind a line of headstones—evidently a gardener, for he
was firming a young plant in the soft earth. She went towards him, her
paper in her hand. He rose at her approach and without prelude or
salutation asked: “Who are you looking for?”
“Lieutenant Michael Turrell—my nephew,” said Helen slowly and word
for word, as she had many thousands of times in her life.
The man lifted his eyes and looked at her with infinite compassion
before he turned from the fresh-sown grass towards the naked black
crosses.
“Come with me,” he said, “and I will show you where your son lies.”

When Helen left the Cemetery she turned for a last look. In the distance
she saw the man bending over his young plants; and she went away,
supposing him to be the gardener.
 THE BURDEN

One grief on me is laid

Each day of every year,
Wherein no soul can aid,
Whereof no soul can hear:
Whereto no end is seen
Except to grieve again—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where is there greater pain?

To dream on dear disgrace

Each hour of every day—
To bring no honest face
To aught I do or say:
To lie from morn till e’en—
To know my lies are vain—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where can be greater pain?

To watch my steadfast fear

Attend my every way
Each day of every year—
Each hour of every day:
To burn, and chill between—
To quake and rage again—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where shall be greater pain?

One grave to me was given—

To guard till Judgment Day—
But God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the Stone away!
One day of all my years—
One hour of that one day—
His Angel saw my tears
And rolled the Stone away!

THE END
 Transcriber’s Notes
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