e storm, going he knew not whither, until he reached the
wharf. The white sheet of snow lying over everything hid from eyes
like his the treacherous margin, and he stepped, unheeding, to his
death! It was conjectured that his body had floated, by an incoming
tide, under the wharf, and that his clothes had caught in the logs
and held it there for so long a time.

Certainty is always better than doubt. On the Sunday after the
saddest funeral it has ever been my lot to attend, Mrs. Martindale
appeared for the first time in church. I did not see her face, for
she kept her heavy black veil closely drawn. On the following Sunday
she was in the family pew again, but still kept her face hidden.
From friends who visited her (I did not call again after my first
denial) I learned that she had become calm and resigned.

To one of these friends she said, "It is better that he should have
died than live to be what I too sadly fear our good society would
have made him--a social burden and disgrace. But custom and example
were all against him. It was at the house of one of my oldest and
dearest friends that wine enticed him. The sister of my heart put
madness in his brain, and then sent him forth to meet a death he had
no skill left to avoid."

Oh, how these sentences cut and bruised and pained my heart, already
too sore to bear my own thoughts without agony!

What more shall I write? Is not this unadorned story sad enough, and
full enough of counsel and warning? Far sooner would I let it sleep,
and go farther and farther away into the oblivion of past events;
but the times demand a startling cry of warning. And so, out of the
dark depths of the saddest experience of my life, I have brought
this grief, and shame, and agony to the light, and let it stand
shivering in the face of all men.

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