ld
you of once."

Swiftly a shadow came into the bright eyes, the sweet mouth curved
pathetically.

"Not even a beggar will seek me, a poor nameless girl travelling in the
train of dishonour ... and again, I will never love."

"Yes, you will indeed, girl--infinitely, supremely. I know you, Berna;
you'll love as few women do. Your dearest will be all your world, his
smile your heaven, his frown your death. Love was at the fashioning of
you, dear, and kissed your lips and sent you forth, saying, 'There goeth
my handmaiden.'"

I thought for a while ere I went on.

"You cared for your grandfather; you gave him your whole heart, a love
full of self-sacrifice, of renunciation. Now he is gone, you will love
again, but the next will be to the last as wine is to water. And the day
will come when you will love grandly. Yours will be a great, consuming
passion that knows no limit, no assuagement. It will be your glory and
your shame. For him will your friends be foes, your light darkness. You
will go through fire and water for your beloved's sake; your parched
lips will call his name, your frail hands cling to him in the shadow of
death. Oh, I know, I know. Love has set you apart. You will immolate
yourself on his altars. You will dare, defy and die for him. I'm sorry
for you, Berna."

Her face hung down, her lips quivered. As for me, I was surprised at my
words and scarce knew what I was saying.

At last she spoke.

"If ever I loved like that, the man I loved must be a king among men, a
hero, almost a god."

"Perhaps, Berna, perhaps; but not needfully. He may be a grim man with a
face of power and passion, a virile, dominant brute, but--well, I think
he will be more of a god. Let's change the subject."

I found she had all the sad sophistication of the lowly-born, yet with
it an invincible sense of purity, a delicate horror of the physical
phases of love. She was a finely motived creature with impossible
ideals, but out of her stark knowledge of life she was naively
outspoken.

Once I asked of her:

"Berna, if you had to choose between death and dishonour, which would
you prefer?"

"Death, of course," she answered promptly.

"Death's a pretty hard proposition," I commented.

"No, it's easy; physical death, compared with the other, compared with
moral death."

She was very emphatic and angry with me for my hazarded demur. In an
atmosphere of disillusionment and moral miasma she clung undauntedly to
her idea