oing to be married that morning. I saw
him stand by the altar when they laughed at breakfast. His wife must be
so beautiful! Richard's wife! Perhaps he will love me better now he is
married. Mama says they must be separated. That is shameful. If I can
help him I will. I pray so that he may be happy. I hope God hears poor
sinners' prayers. I am very sinful. Nobody knows it as I do. They say I
am good, but I know. When I look on the ground I am not looking after
earthworms, as he said. Oh, do forgive me, God!"

Then she spoke of her own marriage, and that it was her duty to obey her
mother. A blank in the Diary ensued.

"I have seen Richard. Richard despises me," was the next entry.

But now as he read his eyes were fixed, and the delicate feminine
handwriting like a black thread drew on his soul to one terrible
conclusion.

"I cannot live. Richard despises me. I cannot bear the touch of my
fingers or the sight of my face. Oh! I understand him now. He should not
have kissed me so that last time. I wished to die while his mouth was on
mine."

Further: "I have no escape. Richard said he would die rather than endure
it. I know he would. Why should I be afraid to do what he would do? I
think if my husband whipped me I could bear it better. He is so kind, and
tries to make me cheerful. He will soon be very unhappy. I pray to God
half the night. I seem to be losing sight of my God the more I pray."

Richard laid the book open on the table. Phantom surges seemed to be
mounting and travelling for his brain. Had Clare taken his wild words in
earnest? Did she lie there dead--he shrouded the thought.

He wrapped the thoughts in shrouds, but he was again reading.

"A quarter to one o'clock. I shall not be alive this time to-morrow. I
shall never see Richard now. I dreamed last night we were in the fields
together, and he walked with his arm round my waist. We were children,
but I thought we were married, and I showed him I wore his ring, and he
said--if you always wear it, Clare, you are as good as my wife. Then I
made a vow to wear it for ever and ever... It is not mama's fault. She
does not think as Richard and I do of these things. He is not a coward,
nor am I. He hates cowards.

"I have written to his father to make him happy. Perhaps when I am dead
he will hear what I say.

"I heard just now Richard call distinctly--Clare, come out to me. Surely
he has not gone. I am going I know not where. I cannot think. I am very