t was still burning in his room. He was sober and repentant when he
had ascended the long stairs, though he counterfeited profound
drunkenness when he stood before her.

She had been weeping, and in her white night-habit, with her dark hair
falling loosely upon her shoulders, she was very lovely. The clock
struck one as they looked at each other. She fell upon his neck and
removed his garments, and wrapped him away between the coverlets; and he
watched her for a long time in the flickering light till a deep sleep
fell upon him, so that he could not feel how closely he was clasped in
her arms.

PART III.

CONSCIENCE.

Lest it has not been made clear in these paragraphs whether Suzette was
a good or a wicked being, we may give the matured and recent judgment of
Ralph Flare himself. Put to the test of religion, or even of
respectability, this intimacy was baneful. A wild young man had broken
his honor for the companionship of a poor, errant girl. She was poor,
but she hated to work; she had no regard for his money; she did not
share his ambition. Making against her a case thus clear and certain,
Ralph Flare entered for Suzette the plea of _not_ wicked, and this was
his defence!

_She was educated in France._ Particular sins lose their shame in some
countries. Woman in France had not the high mission and respect which
she fulfilled in his own land. Suzette was one of many children. Her
father was the cultivator of a few acres in Normandy. Her mother died as
the infant was ushered into the world. To her father and brothers she
was of an unprofitable sex, and her sisters disliked her because she
was handsomer than they. Her childhood was cheerless enough, for she had
quick instincts, and her education availed only to teach her how grand
was the world, and how confined her life. She left her home by stealth,
in the night, and alone. In the city of Cherbourg she found occupation.
She dwelt with strangers; she was lonely; her poverty and her beauty
were her sorrows. She was a girl only till her fifteenth year.

The young mother has but one city of refuge--Paris. Without friends she
passed the bitterness of reminiscence. Through the poverty of skill or
sustenance she lost her boy, and the great city lay all before her where
to choose. Luckily, in France every avenue to struggle was not closed to
her sisterhood; with us such gather only the wages of sin. It was not
there an irreparable disgrace to have fallen. For a