ph of
herself, which I have now. It was impossible to mistake that: nothing
could mar her beauty; and then it was signed and dated in her own
hand. She wrote to say that she had been ill, that she was getting
rapidly worse--it was of consumption, perhaps you remember, that her
mother died--and she wanted to know if I would come to her. She wanted
to tell me everything, and, thank God, she wanted me. So it was there
that I went when I left England last year.

"I stayed with her till she died in that little gilded flat. And during
that month she told me everything. It--it was a long story, Alice, and
it was all set to one shameful tune. And I was not shocked; that would
have made my being with her quite useless, to begin with, but, also, I
did not feel inclined to be shocked. She was so like a child--a child
that has gone wrong, if you will, but still a child. Whether she was
ashamed or not I hardly know, for after she had told me of it all we
never once spoke of it again. Certainly she wished, as passionately as
she was capable in her poor dying state of wishing anything, that she
should not bring shame or sorrow on others. Of all others that she
wished to spare, most of all she wished to spare Daisy; and--a promise
to a dying person is a very solemn thing--I promised that I would do all
that lay in my power so that Daisy should not know. Till yesterday I
thought that promise would never come up. But it has. Daisy must not
conceivably marry him. Also, she must not know why. There is our crux.

"And one word more, in justice to him," she added. "I am convinced he
does not to this day know who it was with whom he lived in Paris. He
knew me, for instance, and liked me; and I am sure he would not have
lived with her knowing who she was. Oh, but, Alice, the misery, the
sorrow of it all! You don't know. You weren't with Diana at the end. And
I loved her. And I think her--her going so utterly wrong like that made
me love her more. The pity of it! The hopeless, helpless sorrow of it!
She did not want to die----"

Jeannie's voice choked for a moment.

"She wanted life, she wanted love, poor child. She was like some
beautiful wild thing, without law. She didn't think. She never loved
her husband, who adored her. She didn't think. And she died
frightened--frightened at what might be in front of her. As if the
Infinite Tenderness was not in front of her! As if Jesus Christ, the
Man of many sorrows, was not there! Oh, Alice, how