dislodge the enemy; what it will cost is not counted. She waited a
moment, then opened the paper so steadily that she spilled none of the
powder in the dimness. She had no last words to say, nothing to leave;
it would be understood. She spread out the paper a little more, still
firmly, still so absorbed in the thought of escape as to have taken no
account of the way. Then she bent her face over it and slowly drew
nearer. Suddenly she raised her head; it seemed as if a voice had called
her, a voice so clear, so still, so full of power that she waited
submissive and wondering. In another moment she came to herself, the
brave self that suffering had thrust away usurping its place by a wicked
will. She drew a long breath as if waking from a horrible dream, and sat
quiet for a while, her hands clenched and brought together. She shivered
in the summer air. Suddenly she rose, took up the paper, and going to
the window, tossed it out, scattering its contents. "It shall never
tempt any one like this again," she said aloud.

Then slipping down to the floor, she leaned her arms upon the windowsill
and buried her face in them.

"God, forgive me," she cried. "It was Thy cross that I was casting off.
But my life is in Thy guidance. I will take all the pain from Thy hand.
Forgive me. Help me against my wicked pride. And in return for the
misery I have brought, give me something good that I may do, some little
favor. And yet--Thy will be done," she added brokenly, then trembled
lest that Will should refuse the one request which seemed to promise any
relief; trembled, but did not retract. "I will wait, I will trust," she
said, and looked into the depths beyond the stars with no fear that her
prayer would fall back into itself like a sound which, finding no home,
returns weary, and robbed of its meaning and strength. She knew that the
something which fell upon her was forgiveness too deep for words and an