case for repentance before the throne of a merciful God.
But I imagine that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of the
distinguished governess could have been nothing but outward formality.
Remorse in the sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only
understandable to me when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature.
But why she, that girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she
should writhe inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of
getting rid of a life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--
that I could not understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure
influence of common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited
feeling--a vague notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old
moralists and preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the
authorised moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. But
lowering her glance unexpectedly till her dark eyelashes seemed to rest
against her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It
was so attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de
Barral should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was
the very last thing I should have believed. She went on after a slight
hesitation:--

"One day I started for there, for that place."

Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember
what we were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself
grinning down at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt
more friendly to her at the moment than ever before.

"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person.
Well, what happened that time?"

An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her
head perhaps--a mere nothing--made her look more demure than ever.

"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly. "I was walking
along the road--you know, _the_ road. I had made up my mind I was not
coming back this time."

I won't deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh
yes, certainly, her head was down--she had put it down) gave me a
thrill; for indeed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never
have been, a make-believe despair.

"Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road."

"When..." Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness worlds
asunder from tragic issues; then glided on--"When suddenly Captain
Anthony came throug