"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty
white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything;
for the present I only desire to be alone."

Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then
she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.

"I am alone," she said--"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be
worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"

She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by
the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs
shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that
betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief
had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one
saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with
tears.

She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of
rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to
say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the
Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless
perfection.

She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a
white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of
the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape