shuddered, and drew my hand
across my eyes. Blood! those old blood-roses rise before me now, in
dreams at night. I heard the latch lift and click again into its place,
and when I looked the child was gone.

* * * * *

She stayed a long while. Over all the garden and across the open
windows, the moon was shining when I heard her step upon the doorway. It
had a weary sound. Those feet which had begun so bravely were tired out
already. Still had I no fear for her. She might have stayed until the
gray dawn cleft the black of night and not one doubt of her could sting
my faith. She climbed the stairs wearily, as if old age had of a sudden
caught and cramped the young life in her feet; and listening thus I
swore a mighty oath against the thing called Fate.

She so young, so strong, so willing, so full of aspiration, so loyal to
faith and honor, with _every_ door barred against her. O my God! was
there none, not one human heart open to her cry? Was there but one
resource--one opening for her pure soul and her proud heart--the
harlot's door? O my God! my God! women are driven to it every day, every
day. Is it, indeed, the only door that opens to their knock? And would
she, too, seek it at last, when faith should be quite dead? No, never!
not while my palsied fingers could find strength to draw a knife across
her throat.

I arose, and went to find her in her room. The door stood slightly open,
and I entered, softly. Why so softly, I never could have told; only it
seemed the proper thing to do. She had thrown herself across the bed,
near by the open window. The moonlight flooded the room, showing me the
strong, pale face lying against the pillow. Her white dress fell about
her like a silverish shroud; and on the table near the window where she
had sat to finish her task lay a manuscript. The moonlight fell upon the
title page with mocking splendor. I stooped and read:

"'_Thou art our Refuge and our Strength._'"

Dear heart! dear, sad soul! She had sought her refuge and indeed found
strength. Strength! I brand him liar who calls it other.

One hand lay on the coverlid beside her, and one upon her breast half
hidden by the dark blood-roses covering her heart. And that heart when I
placed my hand over it--was still.

_Broken!_ who dares say _suicide_? I say it was the grandest blow that
weakness struck for virtue,--her life, offered in the name of outraged
womanhood. The choice lay open. Sh