were to be nourished well, were to grow into their flower--a
poison flower, developed through the three years of convict life
to which the judge had sentenced her.

The girl was appalled by the mercilessness of a destiny that had
so outraged right. She was wholly innocent of having done any
wrong. She had struggled through years of privation to keep
herself clean and wholesome, worthy of those gentlefolk from whom
she drew her blood. And earnest effort had ended at last under
an overwhelming accusation--false, yet none the less fatal to
her. This accusation, after soul-wearying delays, had culminated
to-day in conviction. The sentence of the court had been imposed
upon her: that for three years she should be imprisoned.... This,
despite her innocence. She had endured much--miserably
much!--for honesty's sake. There wrought the irony of fate. She
had endured bravely for honesty's sake. And the end of it all
was shame unutterable. There was nought left her save a wild
dream of revenge against the world that had martyrized her.
"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."... The
admonition could not touch her now. Why should she care for the
decrees of a God who had abandoned her!

There had been nothing in the life of Mary Turner, before the
catastrophe came, to distinguish it from many another. Its most
significant details were of a sordid kind, familiar to poverty.
Her father had been an unsuccessful man, as success is esteemed
by this generation of Mammon-worshipers. He was a gentleman, but
the trivial fact is of small avail to-day. He was of good birth,
and he was the possessor of an inherited competence. He had, as
well, intelligence, but it was not of a financial sort.