cried wildly, "say it isn't true; say it isn't true!"

She knelt over the bed, too deeply stricken for tears. After that
passionate prayer for denial--a prayer which is constantly ascending
from humanity, and which, asking for an assurance that the storm shall
not ravish the rose of life, has in it perhaps at bottom something of
selfishness--she remained motionless. She was thinking it out. It
_was_ true Donald _had_ killed a man. The report could not lie so
circumstantially. The place, and the date, and the details were given.
The story was true, and Donald had taken a life. But then, had he
committed murder? A thousand times, no! Warren had threatened to kill
Donald. Warren _would_ have killed him. Donald defended himself; and
if, in defending himself, he had taken a life, what then? Terrible--too
terrible for words; but life was as sweet to Donald as it was to
Warren. A moment later and he would have been the victim. He obeyed the
fundamental law of nature.

Thus Minnie tried to reason, but it brought no comfort to her. Her
simple dream of love and modest happiness was over. She knew that. The
beautiful vase of life was broken, and no art could mend it!

When thought was in some degree restored, she sat down and wrote the
following letter:--

"Oh, Donald, Donald, what have I read in the papers? Is it true? Is it
true?

"Tell me all. Even if the truth be the very worst, do not fear that I
shall reproach you. God forbid that I should sit in judgment upon you.
Look to God. He can pardon the deepest guilt. My feelings are not