er
call him 'Maurice'! I wish I'd made that clearer in my letter. Why
didn't I tell him to give her that five cents? ... I wonder how many
'minutes' we have had now? We had had fifty-four, that Day. I wish I had
calculated, and put the number in the letter. No, that might have made
him feel badly. I don't want to hurt him; I only want him to know that I
love him enough to die to make him happy. Oh--will it be cold?"

It was then that she took, slowly, one step--and stood still. And
another--and paused. Her heart began to pound suffocatingly in her
throat, and suddenly she knew that she was afraid! She had not known it;
fear had not entered into her plans; just love--and Maurice; just
hate--and Edith! Nor had "Right" or "Wrong" occurred to her. Now, old
instincts rose up. People called this "wicked"? So, if she was going to
do it, she must do it quickly! She mustn't get to thinking or she might
be afraid to do it, because it would be "wicked." She unfastened her
coat, then fumbled with her hat, pinning it on firmly; she was saying,
aloud: "Oh--oh--oh--it's wicked. But I must. Oh--my skirts will get
wet ... 'Kiss thy perfumed garments' ... No; I'll hold them up. Oh--oh--"
And as she spoke her crazy purpose drove her forward; she held back
against it--but, like the pressure of a hand upon her shoulder, it
pushed her on down the bank--slowly--slowly--her heels digging into the
crumbling clay, her hands clutching now at a tuft of grass, now at a
drooping branch; she was drawing quick breaths of terror, and talking,
in little gasps, aloud: "He'll forget Edith. He'll have Jacky. He'll
know how much I love him...." So, over the pebbles, out on to the spit
of sand; on--on--until she reached the river's edge. She stood there for
a minute, listening to the lisping chatter of the current. Very slowly,
she stepped in, and was ankle deep in shallow water,--then stopped
short--the water soaked through her shoes, and suddenly she felt it,
like circling ice, around her ankles! Aloud, she said, "Maurice,--I give
you Jacky. But don't let Lily call you--" She stepped on, into the
stream; one step--two--three. It was still shallow. "Why doesn't it get
_deep_?" she said, angrily; another step and the water was halfway to
her knees; she felt the force of the current and swayed a little; still
another step--above her knees now! and the _rip_, tugging and pulling at
her floating skirts. It was at the next step that she slipped,
staggered, fell