evil of humanity. She was in reality dazed
before this. She was ready to believe an untruth rather than the
incredible truth. But Alice Mendon was merciless. She resolved that
Annie should know once for all.

"We are neither of us mistaken," she said. "Margaret Edes read a
chapter from your book, _The Poor Lady_, and without stating in so
many words that she was the author, she did what was worse. She made
everybody think so. Annie, she is bad, bad, bad. Call the spade a
spade and face it. See how black it is. Margaret Edes has stolen from
you your best treasure."

"I don't care for that so much," said Annie Eustace, "but--I loved
her, Alice."

"Then," said Alice, "she has stolen more than your book. She has
stolen the light by which you wrote it. It is something hideous,
hideous."

Annie gave a queer little dry sob. "Margaret could not have done it,"
she moaned.

Alice crossed swiftly to her and knelt beside her. "Darling," she
said, "you must face it. It is better. I do not say so because I do
not personally like Margaret Edes, but you must have courage and face
it."

"I have not courage enough," said Annie and she felt that she had
not, for it was one of the awful tasks of the world which was before
her: The viewing the mutilated face of love itself.

"You must," said Alice. She put an arm around the slight figure and
drew the fair head to her broad bosom, her maternal bosom, which
served her friends in good stead, since it did not pillow the heads
of children. Friends in distress are as children to the women of her
type.

"Darling," she said in her stately voice from which the anger had
quite gone. "Darling, you must face it. Margaret did read that
chapter from your book and she told, or as good as told everybody
that she had written it."

Then Annie sobbed outright and the tears came.

"Oh," she cried, "Oh, Alice, how she must want success to do anything
like that, poor, poor Margaret! Oh, Alice!"

"How she must love herself," said Alice firmly. "Annie, you must face
it. Margaret is a self-lover; her whole heart turns in love toward
her own self, instead of toward those whom she should love and who
love her. Annie, Margaret is bad, bad, with a strange degenerate
badness. She dates back to the sins of the First Garden. You must
turn your back upon her. You must not love her any more."

"No, I must not love her any more," agreed Annie, "and that is the
pity of it. I must not love her, Alice, but I m