yself at first for sheer joy when it was coming.
And then to nestle down, and sink into it, down, down into it, till one
reaches the great peace. And no more wakings in torment as the drug
passes off, waking as in some iron grave, unable to stir hand or foot,
unable to beat back the suffocating horror and terror which lies cheek
to cheek with us. No more wakings in hell. No more mornings like that.
But instead, the cool, sweet waking in the crystal light in the open
air. And to see the sun come up, and to lie still against the clean,
fragrant haystack and let it warm you! And to watch the quiet, friendly
beasts rise up in the long meadows! And to wake hungry, instead of that
dreadful, maddening thirst! And to _like_ to eat--how good that is, even
if you go fasting half the day! But I never do. The poor will always
give you enough to eat. It hurts them to see any one hungry. Yes, I have
dropped down the ladder rung by rung, and now I have reached the lowest
rung. And it is a good place, the only safe place for wastrels such as
I, the only refuge from my enemy. There is peace on the lowest rung. I
can do no more harm there, and I have done so much. I was ambitious
once, I was admired and clever once; but I found no abiding city
anywhere. Temptation lurked everywhere. I was driven like chaff before
the wind.... But now I have the road. No one will take the road from me
while I live, or the ditch beside it to die in when my time comes. I am
provided for at last. I lead a clean life at last."

She sat silent, her dreamy eyes fixed, her thin hands folded one over
the other. I looked at her with an aching heart. What strange mixture
of truth and lies was all this! But I said nothing. What was the use?

And as we sat silent beside the dying fire the great inequality between
us pressed hard upon me: I, by no special virtue of my own, God knows!
on one of the uppermost rungs of life. She poor soul--poor soul--on the
lowest.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven.

She started slightly, looked at it, and then at me, as if uncertain of
her surroundings, and the shrewd, sardonic look came back to her face.

"I am keeping you up," she said, rising. "I think your strong coffee has
gone to my head. This outburst of autobiography is a poor return for all
your kindness. I had no idea it was so late or that I could be so
garrulous, and I must make a very early start to-morrow. Shall I go into
the kitchen and put on my own clothes