Oh, mother dear, we're free, we're free!"

But the Beaubien was not free. Night after night her sleepless pillow
was wet with bitter tears of remorse, when the accusing angel stood
before her and relentlessly revealed each act of shameful meanness, of
cruel selfishness, of sordid immorality in her wasted life. And,
lastly, the weight of her awful guilt in bringing about the
destruction of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles lay upon her soul like a mountain.
Oh, if she had only foreseen even a little of it! Oh, that Carmen had
come to her before--or not at all! And yet she could not wish that she
had never known the girl. Far from it! The day of judgment was bound
to come. She saw that now. And, but for the comforting presence of
that sweet child, she had long since become a raving maniac. It was
Carmen who, in those first long nights of gnawing, corroding remorse,
wound her soft arms about the Beaubien's neck, as she lay tossing in
mental agony on her bed, and whispered the assurances of that infinite
Love which said, "Behold, I make all things new!" It was Carmen who
whispered to her of the everlasting arms beneath, and of the mercy
reflected by him who, though on the cross, forgave mankind because of
their pitiable ignorance. It is ignorance, always ignorance of what
constitutes real good, that makes men seek it through wrong channels.
The Beaubien had sought good--all the world does--but she had never
known that God alone is good, and that men cannot find it until they
reflect Him. And so she had "missed the mark." Oh, sinful, mesmerized
world, ye shall find Me--the true good--only when ye seek Me with all
your heart! And yet, "I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy
transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins."
Only a God who is love could voice such a promise! And Carmen knew;
and she hourly poured her great understanding of love into the empty
heart of the stricken Beaubien.

Then at last came days of quiet, and planning for the future. The
Beaubien would live--yes, but not for herself. Nay, that life had gone
out forever, nor would mention of it pass her lips again. The
Colombian revolution--her mendacious connivances with Ames--her
sinful, impenitent life of gilded vice--aye, the door was now closed
against that, absolutely and forever more. She had passed through the
throes of a new birth; she had risen again from the bed of anguish;
but she rose stripped of her worldly strength. Carmen was now the
staff