my misconduct. A spirit I could not control
took possession of me. I did not want to do wrong, but I liked people
to think I did wrong. I suppose you cannot understand me, mamma?"

"Yes, I understand, Rose."

"When I was quite alone, I used to cry bitterly about the sin of it;
but all the same, as soon as Antony, or you, or Yanna, or any one that
knew about Duval, came into my sight, I tried to shock them again."

"You will do so no more, Rose?"

"The desire has gone from me. I do not even fear Mr. Duval now. He can
send all the letters he has to Antony, if he wishes. I am naturally a
coward, and cowardice made me sin many a time. If I had only been
brave enough to tell Antony what the villain made me suffer, I need
not have endured it. Antony is generosity. Duval is cruelty."

This explanation gave Mrs. Filmer great relief, and doubtless it
tended to Rose's quick recovery. She no longer bore her burden alone,
and her mother's sympathy, like the pity of the Merciful One, was
without reproach. But it was now that Rose began to realize for the
first time that love teaches as the demon of Socrates taught--by the
penalties exacted for errors. For every hour of her life she felt the
loss of her husband's protecting care. Her sickness had compelled her
to leave everything to servants; and the house was abandoned to their
theft and riot. Waste, destruction, quarreling all day, and eating and
drinking most of the night, were the household ordering. She found it
difficult to get for her own wants the least attention; and the light,
nourishing food she craved was prepared, if at all, in the most
careless manner. Her orders were quarreled over, disputed, or
neglected; and withal she had the knowledge that she must, for the
time being, endure the shameful tyranny. But, oh, how every small
wrong made her remember the almost omniscient love of her husband, and
the involuntary and constant cry of her heart was, "If Antony were
only here!"

Her loneliness, too, was great; she was unaccustomed to solitude, and
she was too weak to bear the physical fatigue of much reading. So the
hours and the days of her convalescence went very drearily onward. She
could not look backward without weeping, and there was no hope in the
future. Alas! alas! our worst wounds are those inflicted by our own
hands; and Rose, musing mournfully on her sofa, knew well that no one
had injured her half so cruelly as she had injured herself. With how
many tear