ee gift of self, and yet she never meant to
hurt any one; and she had kept herself, amid all the confusion, the
gentlest and sweetest of souls.

"When she sent for John she was dying and she did not know what to do
about the boy. She had no family--no near friend.

"I went with my husband to see her. There did not seem to be anything
else to do. I had no feeling; it was plain duty. Even with the touch of
death upon her, Elizabeth Thornton was the most beautiful woman I have
ever seen. I cannot describe the sensation she made upon me; but she was
like an innocent, pure child who had played with harmful and soiled toys
but had come wearily to the day's end, herself unsullied.

"When she knew about me she was broken-hearted. She wept and called to
little Dick, who sat in a small chair by her couch:

"'Oh! little son, we could have managed, couldn't we? We would not have
hurt any one for the world, would we, sonny?' And the boy got up and
soothed her as a man might have done, and he was only a little creature.
I think I loved him from the moment I saw him shielding that poor, dying
mother from her own folly. 'Course, mummy, course!' he repeated over and
again. Then he looked at me with the eyes of my own dead baby. Both
children were startlingly like the father. The look pleaded for mercy
from me to them--John, the mother, and the little fellow himself. And I,
who had vaguely meant to help the world some day, began--with them! Just
for a little time after Elizabeth Thornton's death I became human, or
perhaps inhuman. I resented the wrong that had been done me; I wanted to
fling John and the child away from me; but then a sense of power rallied
me. I had never tasted it before. I could cast the helpless pair from me,
or--I could save them from the world and the world's hideous pity for me.
I accepted the burden laid upon me. I think John thought I would forget,
would forgive. I cannot explain--my sort of woman is never understood
by--well, John's sort of man. I am afraid he grew to have a contempt for
me, but I lived on loving them both, but never becoming able to meet
John's hope of me. I knew he was often lonely--I have pitied him
since--but I could not help being what I was.

"I tried, but it was no use. We lived abroad for years, and little Dick
forgot--I am sure he forgot--his mother, and when I felt secure I gave
him all, all the passion and devotion of my life.

"John died abroad; I came home with my crippled boy