lushed in the thought of this. Almost more
than if she had his heart it seemed to have his cry for assistance. She
must answer it effectually. She must. But how? And then she sprang up
and began to pace the room. How to help him. Slowly, and with a minute
examination, she went in memory through his story, with its egoism, its
cruelty, its ambition, its punishment, its childlike helplessness of
to-night, and of many nights. She recalled each word that he had spoken
until she came to almost the last, "I have prayed. But God forgives only
those who reverse their evil acts. Mine can never be reversed. I can
never be kind to my child--" Just there she stopped. Maurice's words
flew against what Lily's religion taught her of the Great Being who can
pardon simply and fully so long only as the sinner entirely and deeply
repents. But she accepted them as true for Maurice. There was the point
to be faced. She felt that his nature, haunted indeed or betrayed by its
own weakness, but still loved by her, could only be restored to peace if
he could fulfil the impossible, reverse--as he expressed it--that act
of his past. Ah, that cry of the little dying, helpless child, of his
little child. Lily could almost hear it too, the tears came into her
eyes. How could she still it? How could she lay the little spirit to
rest forever? Peace for child, peace for father, sinned against and
sinner--she felt she would gladly sacrifice her own life, her own peace,
to work the miracle of comfort on dead and living. Yes, she could give
up her love,--if--. Suddenly Lily threw herself down on her bed and
buried her burning face deep in the pillows. A thought had come to her,
so strange that she wondered whether it were not wicked. The hot red
colour surged over her with this thought, and all the woman in her
quivered as she asked herself whether, in this life of sorrows and of
abnegations, it could ever be that the grief and the terror of another
could be swept away by one who, in the endeavour to bring solace, must
obtain intense personal happiness. In books it is ever self-sacrifice
that purges and persuades, martyrdom of the senses that renews and
relieves. Lily was ready indeed to be a martyr for the man she loved.
But the strange way she saw of being his possible saviour lay only in a
light of the sun forever on herself.

She wept and saw the light, herself and Maurice walking in it together,
till the church bell chimed in the morning, and the tide