ia, and I write to reassure and
congratulate you. Some signs of inexperience I may perhaps observe, some
lack of ease and simplicity, but already it is a performance of so much
passion and power that I predict for it a triumphant success. A great
future awaits you. Don't shrink from it, don't be afraid of it; it is as
certain as that the sun will rise to-morrow."

She carried the letter to her lips, then rose from the couch, and threw
up her head, closed her eyes, and smiled. The visionary woman was taking
hold of her again with the slow grip and embrace of the glacier.

Rosa came home to dine, and at sight of the new costume she cried, "Shade
of Titian, what a picture!" During dinner she mentioned that she had met
Mr. Drake, who had said that the Prince was likely to be present at the
production, having asked for the date and other particulars.

"But haven't you heard the _great_ news, dear? It's in all the late
editions of the evening papers."

"What is it?" said Glory; but she saw what was coming.

"Father Storm is to follow Father Damien. That's the report, at all
events; but he is expected to make a statement at his club to-night, and
I have to be there for the paper."

As soon as dinner was over Rosa went off to Soho, and then Glory was
brought back with a shock to the agony of her inward struggle. She knew
that her hour had arrived, and that on her action now everything
depended. She knew that she could never break the chains by which the
world and her profession held her. She knew that the other woman had
come, that she must go with her, and go for good. But the renunciation of
love was terrible. The day had been soft and beautiful. It was falling
asleep and yawning now, with a drowsy breeze that shook the yellow leaves
as they hung withered and closed on the thinning boughs like the fingers
of an old maid's hand. She was sitting at the desk by the window, trying
to write a letter. More than once she tore up the sheet, dried her eyes,
and began again. What she wrote last was this:

"It is impossible, dear John. I can not go with you to the South Seas. I
have struggled, but I can not, I can not! It is the greatest, noblest,
sublimest mission in the world, but I am not the woman for these high
tasks. I should be only a fruitless fig tree, a sham, a hypocrite. It
would be like taking a dead body with you to take me, for my heart would
not be there. You would find that out, dear, and I should be ashamed.

"A