In spite of her efforts to withdraw them to other subjects, her thoughts
dwelt upon Miriam; and, as had not heretofore happened, they brought
with them a painful doubt whether a wrong had not been committed on
Hilda's part, towards the friend once so beloved. Something that Miriam
had said, in their final conversation, recurred to her memory, and
seemed now to deserve more weight than Hilda had assigned to it, in her
horror at the crime just perpetrated. It was not that the deed looked
less wicked and terrible in the retrospect; but she asked herself
whether there were not other questions to be considered, aside from that
single one of Miriam's guilt or innocence; as, for example, whether a
close bond of friendship, in which we once voluntarily engage, ought to
be severed on account of any unworthiness, which we subsequently detect
in our friend. For, in these unions of hearts,--call them marriage,
or whatever else,--we take each other for better for worse. Availing
ourselves of our friend's intimate affection, we pledge our own, as
to be relied upon in every emergency. And what sadder, more desperate
emergency could there be, than had befallen Miriam? Who more need the
tender succor of the innocent, than wretches stained with guilt! And
must a selfish care for the spotlessness of our own garments keep us
from pressing the guilty ones close to our hearts, wherein, for the very
reason that we are innocent, lies their securest refuge from further
ill?

It was a sad thing for Hilda to find this moral enigma propounded to her
conscience; and to feel that, whichever way she might settle it, there
would be a cry of wrong on the other side. Still, the idea stubbornly
came back, that the tie between Miriam and herself had been real, the
affection true, and that therefore the implied compact was not to be
shaken off.

"Miriam loved me well," thought Hilda remorsefully, "and I failed her at
her sorest need."

Miriam loved her well; and not less ardent had been the affection which
Miriam's warm, tender, and generous characteristics had excited in
Hilda's more reserved and quiet nature. It had never been extinguished;
for, in part, the wretchedness which Hilda had since endured was but
the struggle and writhing of her sensibility, still yearning towards
her friend. And now, at the earliest encouragement, it awoke again, and
cried out piteously, complaining of the violence that had been done it.

Recurring to the delinquencies o