a heart is when killed."

She caught her breast as though it hurt her, and, after a moment,
continued: "Do hearts always ache so when they love? I was the wife of a
good man oh! he WAS a good man, who sinned for me. I see it now!--and I
let him die--die alone!" She shuddered. "Oh, now I see, and I know
what love such as his can be! I am punished--punished! for my love is
impossible, horrible."

There was a long silence, in which she sat looking at the floor, her
face all grey with pain. At last the door of the room softly opened, and
Justine entered.

"May I come in, madame?" she said.

"Yes, come, Justine." The voice was subdued, and there was in it what
drew the girl swiftly to the side of Mrs. Falchion. She spoke no word,
but gently undid the other's hair, and smoothed and brushed it softly.

At last Mrs. Falchion said: "Justine, on Monday we will leave here."

The girl was surprised, but she replied without comment: "Yes, madame;
where do we go?"

There was a pause; then: "I do not know. I want to go where I shall get
rested. A village in Italy or--" she paused.

"Or France, madame?" Justine was eager.

Mrs. Falchion made a gesture of helplessness. "Yes, France will do....
The way around the world is long, and I am tired." Minutes passed, and
then she slowly said: "Justine, we will go to-morrow night."

"Yes, madame, to-morrow night--and not next Monday."

There was a strange only half-veiled melancholy in Mrs. Falchion's next
words: "Do you think, Justine, that I could be happy anywhere?"

"I think anywhere but here, madame."

Mrs. Falchion rose to a sitting posture, and looked at the girl fixedly,
almost fiercely. A crisis was at hand. The pity, gentleness, and honest
solicitude of Justine's face conquered her, and her look changed to one
of understanding and longing for companionship: sorrow swiftly welded
their friendship.

Before Mrs. Falchion slept that night, she said again: "We will leave
here to-morrow, Justine, for ever."

And Justine replied: "Yes, madame, for ever."

CHAPTER XIX. THE SENTENCE

The next morning Roscoe was quiet and calm, but he looked ten years
older than when I had first seen him. After breakfast he said to me: "I
have to go to the valley to pay Phil Boldrick's friend the money, and to
see Mr. Devlin. I shall be back, perhaps, by lunchtime. Will you go with
me, or stay here?"

"I shall try to get some fishing this morning, I fancy," I said.
"And possibly I s