ature judgment and in possession of his faculties, do
such a thing? Why, it would be not only murder, but cowardice as well!
No; it could not be done. She was still a woman, with all the weakness,
all the frailty which her sex imposed. It could not be done.

After all, it would be far sweeter revenge to let her live, bearing
through life a brand of infamy. That would be much better. She would
lose her high position and the respect of her friends; the newspapers
would publish her shame to the world, pointing her out by name as the
depraved woman who had betrayed her husband and driven him to murder
and suicide; they would have her portrait in their columns; her name
and crime would be hawked upon the street by loud-crying news-boys;
sermons denouncing her would be preached in all the churches; her shame
would be discussed everywhere--in homes, shops, hotels, and bar-rooms
in many cities.

Not only that, but she would be stripped of all the property which she
had enjoyed so much. She would be turned adrift upon the streets, for
no one would help her, none have a kind word for her, none give her
even the respect which money might command. Being thus turned out upon
the world all friendless and alone, and being naturally depraved, she
would seek the protection of fast and shady men. Thus started, and soon
taking to drink, as such women always do, down she would plunge into a
reckless and shameless career, sinking lower and lower, losing her
beauty; becoming coarse, loud, and vulgar; then, arriving at that stage
when her beauty no longer could be a source of revenue, drifting into
vile dens, consorting with the lowest and most brutal blackguards,
finding herself dragged often before police-magistrates, first for
drunkenness and then for theft, serving short terms in prison with
others as low; finally, one night brought shrieking with delirium
tremens to the police-station, bundled out to the hospital, strapped
firmly to an iron bed, and then dying with foul oaths on her lips--such
a life would be infinitely worse than death; such revenge immeasurably
vaster than that of the pistol. Then it was finally decided that she
must live and suffer.

As to the friend--as to Stockton, the betrayer, the sneak, the
coward--_he_ should die like a dog. _That_ decision could not be
reconsidered. He should not be granted the privilege of a duel, for not
only was he wholly undeserving of such consideration, but by such means
his life might