arth. She would
be gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He
would remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had
once been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in him
of her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds.

She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly
if he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over.
Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures in
his mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hours
before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege. In
that short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what she
had almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionate
love, had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and had
turned much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold. She hated
the very idea of using again those arts which had so directly wrought
her utter destruction. But she longed to know that in the world whither
he would doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory
of her, one natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her
power, but growing of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly
memory--nothing more than that.

She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his
face. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as a
mourning angel.

It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all
she had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little in
respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in return
she asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be over.

She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her lips.

"Sleep on, my beloved," she said in a voice that murmured softly and
sadly.

She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid,
like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he seemed
to sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, to sleep
like that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first and last,
had not waked him.

"Sleep on," she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself.
"Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleep
on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You have
forgiven--forget,