recounting a vision conjured up in the glittering surface of the stone.
"It was a free night for her. And she read on and on and on. The book
gripped her; it fascinated her. It was--a great book. It was
called--_Remembrance_." She drew a quick breath and went on somewhat
hurriedly. "It moved her in a fashion that perhaps you would hardly
realize. I have read it, and I--understand. The writing was wonderful.
It brought home to her--vividly, oh, vividly--how the past may be atoned
for, but never, never effaced. It hurt her--oh, it hurt her. But it did
her good. It showed her how she was on the verge of taking a wrong
turning, of perhaps--no, almost certainly--dragging down the man who
loved her. She saw suddenly the wickedness of marrying him just to
escape her own prison. She understood clearly that only love could have
justified her--no other motive than that. She saw the evil of fastening
her past to an honourable man whose good name and family demanded of him
something better. She felt as if the writer had torn aside a veil and
shown her her naked soul. And--and--though the book was a good book, and
did not condemn sinners--she was shocked, she was horrified, at what it
made her see."

Rosemary suddenly closed her hand upon the shining stone, and turned
fully and resolutely to the man beside her.

"That night changed Rosa Mundi," she said; "changed her completely.
Before it was over she wrote to the young man who loved her and told him
that she could not marry him. The letter did not go till the following
evening. She kept it back for a few hours--in case she repented.
But--though she suffered--she did not repent. In the evening she had an
engagement to dance. The young man was there--in the front row. And he
brought his friend. She danced. Her dancing was superb that night. She
had a passionate desire to bewitch the man who had waked her soul--as