And lived exclusively, not mixing with

The stream of English tourists; I became
Acquainted with them casually, and thus

Was much surprised that she should send for me
The day next after Christmas;-I have mentioned
What happened then, and how I looked upon it.
For some weeks after I was strange to them;
Her husband seemed to shun me.

seems

Now, it

(To write what I have subsequently learnt,)

These cards oppressed her conscience; she became Not anxious, as one surely would have thought

A woman in her station should have been,

To clear herself, and clear her child, from shame, But anxious to reveal it, lest the lie,

Descending to her child, should work it harm.

She sent for me; and, more than this, she wrote The truth upon some fifty of her cards,

To let those know to whom the lie was told

That she repented. Can you fathom this?

Her husband did not post them, though to her
He said that they were gone, and he had been
A wiser man if he had kept her blind

Till she was round again; but he confessed

The fraud some five weeks later; whereupon
She, always subject to excitement, fell

Into brain-fever, in the midst of which

Her child was born-born dead, and after which

She died of pure

exhaustion.

This is all

The outline of her story; could I but

Make your eyes see the scene I saw last week,

When she was dying, you would understand

The reason why I fill this outline in

With colours different from those with which

Such outlines should be filled; should,-for I think

That, sensitive as women mostly are

And on the world dependent, such a fact

As marriage without order, as a rule,

Implies a woman void of modesty.

But in this case 'twas not so; she was one

Of those pure women in whose presence dwells
Rebuke of liberty;-I felt it so

First time I saw her; this, indeed, was why

A terror,-I have always seen it so,—

A terror likewise to the hypocrite;

Read to the end and tell me what you think.
Her mind was clear again; she knew quite well
What thing had happened, and she seemed content,
More than content, to know that she had borne
No living child; and once, indeed, I thought,
Not knowing then 'twas best that she should die,
She might get through; I do not think she

thought so,

And for her husband,-I must call him so,

His mind was like a house against itself

Divided; yet I think his grief is less

Over her death than his perplexity

Had been if she had lived. The night she died
I thought her something brighter, and was going
To leave him watching while I took some rest
(Scold, if you like,—I care not) in a room

I had called mine for several nights before.

She was awake, and smiled, and looked at me,
Then at her husband, as in thankfulness,

Then turned as if to sleep; when, suddenly,

I heard him say, 'Good God!' and, turning

round,

Beheld her bending forwards, with her hands
Stretched to their farthest, striving to embrace
Something we could not see, and all her face

Lost in the seeing of it ;-I looked, he looked,-—
Like those who heard a voice, but saw no man ;
A moment he supported her, and then

Her hands dropped down, and sideways drooped

her head

Upon her husband's shoulder; so she died.

Think over this; you cannot choose but think;

Was this the manner of a woman's death

Who sins against herself?