goal of salvation, whether it liked it or not.

Sabina rose from her seat by the window, when she thought of liberty,
and she walked up and down her room, driven by something she could not
understand, and yet withheld by something she understood even less.
For it was not fear, nor reflection, nor even common sense nor the
thought of giving pain to any one that hindered her from leaving the
house at such moments. It was not even the memory of the one human
being who had hitherto loved her, and for whom she had felt affection
and gratitude,--one of the nuns at the convent school, a brave, quiet
little lady who made her believe in good. She meant to do no harm if
she were free, and the nun would not really blame her, if she knew the
truth.

It was not that. It was the secret conviction that there was harm in
the world from which mere courage could not protect her; it was the
sort of instinct that warns young animals not to eat plants that are
poisonous; it was the maiden intuition of a strange and unknown
danger.

She sat down again disconsolately. It was absurd, of course, and she
could not run away. Where could she go? She had no money, and she
would have to starve or beg before one day was out. She would be
homeless, she would be driven to some house of charity, for a meal and
a place to sleep, or else to sleep out under the sky. That would be
delightful for once. She had always longed to sleep out of doors, to
feel the breeze playing with her feathery hair in the dark, to watch
the constellations turning slowly westwards, to listen to the night
sounds, to the low rhythmical piping of the tree toad, the sorrowful
cry of the little southern owl and the tolling of the hour in a far-