lood on her hands?
Would her mother turn away from her? and the little brother, whom she
had loved, would he reject her? And what Voice of Doom might strike her
into everlasting hopelessness?

But, be the sin what it might, yet would she sin it for the sake of
Geoffrey; ay, even if she must reap a harvest of eternal woe. She bent
her head and prayed. "Oh, Power, that art above, from whom I come, to
whom I go, have mercy on me! Oh, Spirit, if indeed thy name is Love,
weigh my love in thy balance, and let it lift the scale of sin. Oh, God
of Sacrifice, be not wroth at my deed of sacrifice and give me pardon,
give me life and peace, that in a time to come I may win the sight of
him for whom I die."

A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too full of human passion
for one about to leave the human shores. But, then--well, it was
Beatrice who prayed--Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the
limits of her passion, who still thought more of her love than of saving
her own soul alive. Perhaps it found a home--perhaps, like her who
prayed it, it was lost upon the pitiless deep.

Then Beatrice prayed no more. Short was her time. See, there sank the
sun in glory; and there the great rollers swept along past the sullen
headland, where the undertow met wind and tide. She would think no more
of self; it was, it seemed to her, so small, this mendicant calling on
the Unseen, not for others, but for self: aid for self, well-being for
self, salvation for self--this doing of good that good might come to
self. She had made her prayer, and if she prayed again it should be for
Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be happy--that he might forgive the
trouble her love had brought into his life. That he might forget her she
could not pray. She had prayed her prayer and said her say, and it was
done with. Let her be judged as it seemed good to Those who judge! Now
she would fix her thoughts upon her love, and by its strength would she
triumph over the bitterness of death. Her eyes flashed and her breast
heaved: further out to sea, further yet--she would meet those rollers
a knot or more from the point of the headland, that no record might
remain.

Was it her wrong if she loved him? She could not help it, and she was
proud to love him. Even now, she would not undo the past. What were
the lines that Geoffrey had read to her. They haunted her mind with a
strange persistence--they took time to the beat of her falling paddle,
and woul