must
cleanse her soul of evil!_

But--had she not cleansed her soul already? Had she not confessed the
truth about her longing for a child? And written it down in her diary
and prayed God to forgive her? Was not that enough? Why should this
pressure to confess more be put upon her? Could it be that frivolous,
selfish Roberta Vallis was the unconscious agent of some fateful power
urging Penelope Wells to look into her soul again?

Suddenly, in a flash of new understanding, Mrs. Wells decided. This was
no longer a trifling incident, but a happening of deep spiritual import.
She was struggling desperately for health--for happiness. Perhaps this
was her way of salvation, if she could only bring herself to say the
one thing that--that ought to be said. After all, the opinion of these
careless Bohemians mattered little--it was God's opinion that mattered.

"Do you mind if I bring Seraphine to the party?" Penelope asked with a
far-away look in her eyes.

"Of course not--we'll be glad to have her."

"All right, Bobby. I will make a confession. There is something I want
to confess. I don't know just the details, but--yes I do, too, it's
about--" she hesitated, but went on with strengthening resolve, "it's
about a trip I made once on a Fall River steamboat."

Roberta's eyes danced at this prospect.

"Splendid, Pen! We'll have yours last--just before the supper."

And so it came about that it was Penelope herself who set into action
forces of the mind or the soul, memories and fears that were to change
her whole future.

We need take no account of the other confessions (except one), tinsel or
tawdry fragments from the drift-wood of life, that were offered blithely
by three or four members of the gay company. We are concerned with
Penelope's confession, and with this only as it leads up to subsequent
developments of the evening. There was an ominous significance in the
fact that Mrs. Wells made this confession before the man she loved. Why
did she do that? Why?

Penelope sat beside a Japanese screen of black and gold on which a
red-tongued dragon coiled its embroidered length and, by the light of a
yellow lantern just above (there was also a tiny blue lantern that
flung down a caressing ray upon her smooth dark hair and adorable
shoulders) she glanced at some loose leaves taken from an old diary.
Then, nerving herself for the effort, she began in a low, appealing
tone, but rather unsteadily:

"I am going to tell you