tawdry ribbon had been
given her by Jim, long ago. Was it long ago? She couldn't tell, and
what did it matter? She wouldn't have looked twice at it a while back.
She might kiss and cuddle it now, if she'd a mind.

What a long way off that water seemed! Not there yet, and she had been
walking--walking like the wayfarer she remembered to have read of in
the _Pilgrim's Progress_. All in a moment, with a flash, as it were,
of its own light, there it lay glistening at her feet. Another step
and she would have been in head-foremost! There was time enough. How
cool and quiet it looked! She sat down on the brink and wondered why
she was born!

Would Jim feel it very much? Ah! they'd none of them care for him like
she used. He'd find that out at last. How could he? How _could_ he?
She'd given him fair warning!

She'd do it now. This moment, while she'd a mind to it. Afraid! Why
should she be afraid? Better than the gin-palace! Better than the
workhouse! Better than the cold cruel streets! She couldn't be worse
off anywhere than here! Once! Twice!

Her head swam. She was rising to her feet, when a light touch rested
on her shoulder, and the sweetest voice that had ever sounded in poor
Dorothea's ears, whispered softly, "You are ill, my good woman. Don't
sit here on the damp grass. Come home with me."

What did it mean? Was it over? Could this be one of the angels, and
had she got to heaven after all? No; there were the trees, the grass,
the distant roar of the city, and the peaceful water--fair, smooth,
serene, like the face of a friend.

She burst into a fit of hysterical weeping, cowering under that kindly
touch as if it had been a mountain to crush her, rocking herself to
and fro, sobbing out wildly, "I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

BEAT

Like a disturbed spirit Lady Bearwarden wandered about in the fever
of a sorrow, so keen that her whole soul would sometimes rise in
rebellion against the unaccustomed pain. There was something stifling
to her senses in the fact of remaining between the four walls of a
house. She panted for air, motion, freedom, and betook herself to
Kensington Gardens, partly because that beautiful retreat lay within
an easy walk of her house, partly perhaps, that for her, as for many
of us, it had been brightened by a certain transient and delusive
light which turns everything to gold while it lasts, leaves everything
but a dull dim copper when it has passed awa