betrayed, whose belief in honor had been destroyed. Where had she fled?
Into whose heart had she poured the torrent of her grief and shame?
Could there be one thought of love, of forgiveness? Ah, she was a mother
no longer. She had sold her sacred trust. She had no rights, no
privileges. She must go--go quickly, efface herself forever. That was
her duty, that was the only way. Like a mortally wounded creature, she
thought only of some small, cramped, sheltered corner, some lair wherein
to die.

With an effort she turned from the room, closed the door, and stood
uncertain where to turn. Down the corridor, at its far end, was
Dorothy's room. The thought drew her. She turned the knob, found the
switch, and hesitated on the thresh-hold. Should she go in? Should she,
the sin-stained soul, dare profane the sanctuary, the virginal altar of
the pure in heart! Yes--ah, yes!--for this last time! She was a mother
still.

She entered, and cast herself on her knees by the little pink and white
bed. She had no tears--the springs of relief were dried in the flame of
her heart's hell. She found Dorothy's pillow, a mass of dainty
embroidery and foolish frills. She laid her hot cheek on its cool linen
surface. In a passion of loss she kissed each leaf and rose of its
needlework garland.

Then she rose to her feet. She must go, she must disappear--now, and
forever from the world that had known her. She would send one message
when the time came--one message--to the one man she trusted, to the one
man who would fulfill her wish--that in the years to come, his watchful
care should guard her child from further harm. But that, too, must wait.
She rose to her feet, and crossed to the dressing-table. There was