s all so unlike the place he had come from,
his own bare chamber under the church!

He could have fancied that Glory had that moment left the room. The door
of a little ebony cabinet stood half open and he could see inside. Its
lower shelves were full of shoes and little dainty slippers, some of them
of leather, some of satin, some black, some red, some white. They touched
him with an indescribable tenderness and he turned his eyes away. Under
the lamp lay a pair of white gloves. One of them was flat and had not
been worn, but the other was filled out with the impression of a little
hand. He took it up and laid it across his own big palm, and another wave
of tenderness broke over him.

On the mantelpiece there were many photographs. Most of them were of
Glory and some were very beautiful, with their gleaming and glistening
eyes and their curling and waving hair. One looked even voluptuous with
its parted lips and smiling mouth; but another was different--it was so
sweet, so gay, so artless. He thought it must belong to an earlier
period, for the dress was such as she used to wear in the days when he
knew her first, a simple jersey and a sailor's stocking cap. Ah, those
days that were gone, with their innocence and joy! Glory! His bright, his
beautiful Glory!

His emotion was depriving him of the free use of his faculties, and he
began to ask himself why he was waiting there. At the next instant came
the thought of the awful thing he had come to do and it seemed monstrous
and impossible. "I'll go away," he told himself, and he turned his face
toward the door.

On a what-not at the door side of the room another photograph stood in a
glass stand. His back had been to it, and the soft light of the lamp left
a great part of the room in obscurity, but he saw it now, and something
bitter that lay hidden at the bottom of his heart rose to his throat. It
was a portrait of Drake, and at the sight of it he laughed savagely and
sat down.

How long he sat he never knew. To the soul in torment there is no such
thing as time; an hour is as much as, eternity and eternity is no more
than an hour. His head was buried in his arms on the table and he was a
prey to anguish and doubt. At one time he told himself that God did not
send men to commit murder; at the next that this was not murder but
sacrifice. Then a mocking voice in his ears seemed to say, "But the world
will call it murder and the law will punish you." To that he answered