ster who had committed the worst of murders--the wretch who
had killed in me all that made life worth having. While that thought was
in my mind, I heard the whisper again. "Kill her openly," the tempter
mother said. "Kill her daringly. Faint heart, do you still want courage?
Rouse your spirit; look! see yourself in the act!"

The temptation took a form which now tried me for the first time.

As if a mirror had reflected the scene, I saw myself standing by the
bedside, with the pillow that was to smother the sleeper in my hands. I
heard the whispering voice telling me how to speak the words that warned
and condemned her: "Wake! you who have taken him from me! Wake! and meet
your doom."

I saw her start up in bed. The sudden movement disordered the nightdress
over her bosom and showed the miniature portrait of a man, hung round
her neck.

The man was Philip. The likeness was looking at me.

So dear, so lovely--those eyes that had once been the light of my heart,
mourned for me and judged me now. They saw the guilty thought that
polluted me; they brought me to my knees, imploring him to help me back
to my better self: "One last mercy, dear, to comfort me under the loss
of you. Let the love that was once my life, be my good angel still. Save
me, Philip, even though you forsake me--save me from myself!"

.......

There was a sudden cry.

The agony of it pierced my brain--drove away the ghastly light--silenced
the tempting whispers. I came to myself. I saw--and not in a dream.

Helena _had_ started up in her bed. That cry of terror, at the sight
of me in her room at night, _had_ burst from her lips. The miniature of
Philip hung round her neck, a visible reality. Though my head was dizzy,
though my heart was sinking, I had not lost my senses yet. All that the
night lamp could show me, I still saw; and I heard the sound, faintly,
when the door of the bed-chamber was opened. Alarmed by that piercing
cry, my father came hurrying into the room.

Not a word passed between us three. The whispers that I had heard were
wicked; the thoughts that had been in my mind were vile. Had they left
some poison in the air of the room, which killed the words on our lips?

My father looked at Helena. With a trembling hand she pointed to me. He
put his arm round me and held me up. I remember his leading me away--and
I remember nothing more.

My last words are written. I lock up this journal of misery-never, I
hope and pray, to open it