tion," she proceeds, "but I have it on the authority of the label,
that my husband has tried to find the antidote to these Drops, and has
tried in vain. If my heart fails me, when the deed is done, there can be
no reprieve for the woman whose tongue I must silence for ever--or, after
all I have sacrificed, my child's future is ruined."

There is little doubt that she intended to destroy these compromising
pages, on her return to Mr. Keller's house--and that she would have
carried out her intention, but for those first symptoms of the poison,
which showed themselves in the wandering of her mind, and the helpless
trembling of her hands.

The final entry in the Diary has an interest of its own, which I think
justifies the presentation of it in this place. It shows the purifying
influence of the maternal instinct in a wicked nature, surviving to the
last. Even Madame Fontaine's nature preserved, in this way, a softer
side. On the memorable occasion of her meeting with Mr. Keller in the
hall, she had acted as imprudently as if she had been the most foolish
woman living, in her eagerness to plead Minna's cause with the man on
whom Minna's marriage depended. She had shrunk from poisoning harmless
Jack, even for her own protection. She would not even seduce Minna into
telling a lie, when a lie would have served them both at the most
critical moment of their lives.

Are such redeeming features unnatural in an otherwise wicked woman? Think
of your own "inconsistencies." Read these last words of a sinner--and
thank God that you were not tempted as she was:

"... Sent Minna out of my room, and hurt my sensitive girl cruelly. I
am afraid of her! This last crime seems to separate me from that pure
creature--all the more, because it has been committed in her dearest
interests, and for her sweet sake. Every time she looks at me, I am
afraid she may see what I have done for her, in my face. Oh, how I long
to take her in my arms, and devour her with kisses! I daren't do it--I
daren't do it."

Lord, have mercy on her--miserable sinner!

IX

The night is getting on; and the lamp I am writing by grows dim.

My mind wanders away from Frankfort, and from all that once happened
there. The picture now in my memory presents an English scene.

I am at the house of business in London. Two friends are waiting for me.
One of them is Fritz. The other is the most popular person in the
neighborhood; a happy, harmless creature, known to ev