g for him was akin to
worship. It was he who represented to her henceforth the ideal which,
like a fixed star, should give light to her path, though so
immeasurably far above her.

What a strange life was this into which she had now entered! She felt
the certainty that her courage would be sufficient for it, but with
all her resolution she could not always keep back the bitter tears of
her wordless, hopeless, uncontrollable longing. At times this was a
thing so mighty that she had the feeling that, if her body were only
as strong as her spirit, she would be able to swim through those
thousands of watery miles that separated them, only to tell him the
truth, and then lay down her life at his feet.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was one of Bettina's weary days. Its hours had lagged and dragged
until the evening had come, and she had sunk down, exhausted and
depressed, in a big old-fashioned chair in front of her wood fire,
which seemed the only ray of cheerfulness within or without. She had
had these feelings before, and she knew that they would probably
pass, but never before had it been so borne in upon her that life was
sad and wretched alike for those whom she was trying to help and for
her who was so in need of help herself--little as they dreamed it.
Were they worth helping, those poor evil-environed creatures who so
continually disappointed her hopes and efforts? Was she worth
helping, either--weak, aimless creature that she was--who had vowed
to be content in the mere consciousness that Horace lived, and that
he had once supremely loved her, and then again and again had fallen
into this hopeless discontent which thirsted so for what she had
pledged herself to give up--the possession of that love to satisfy
the present hour's need?

She lay back in the big deep chair, her white hands loosely grasping
its arms, and her white lids lowered. Now and then a tear would
trickle from beneath those lids and a slight contraction of pain
would move her lips. Any one looking in upon her so might well have
wondered where were the friends and companions of this beautiful,
lonely woman, shut into this small room, in the silence of a twilight
that hung damp and gray outside, and that the smouldering fire
lighted but fitfully within, while the low murmur of flames fitfully
broke the silence.

Not a sound escaped her lips. She gazed longingly, sadly into the
glowing heart of the fire, and saw visions and dreamed dreams, but
not