My drops of tears I turn to sparks of fire. SHAKESPEARE. Terrified and enraged beyond anything that she had ever experienced in all the days of her life, offended and revolted beyond all hope of reconciliation, Gloria had fled from the presence of her guardian and sought the sanctity of her own room. There she locked herself in, and sat down to recover her lost wits and breath. She sat there, looking not like the glad little Glo’ whom we first knew, and whose pulse was music and whose breath was song—no, she sat there, with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and her eyes fixed on vacancy, shrunk to half their size, gleaming with twice their fire, and glowing like live coals from the white ashes of her pale and angry face—she sat there like some grim little Sphinx or Nemesis brooding revenge and plotting ruin. “I hate him now. I can never bear to look upon his face again!”—so ran her thoughts. “To dare to kiss me on my lips! Why, my own beloved father seldom kissed me except upon my brow. And David Lindsay, my old playmate and my preserver, who loves me so unselfishly—David Lindsay, as he knelt beside my bed, on the morning after he had saved my life, only lifted a curl of my hair and pressed it to his face, and when he saw me wake and look at him, he laid the tress down reverently, as if it were something almost too sacred to be touched. And he is a poor, uncultivated man. And to think that this gentleman, this officer, this Colonel de Crespigney, should have so forgotten his honor! This guardian should have so betrayed his trust as to seize and hold me powerless and kiss me on my lips in spite of all my struggles and distress! Oh, the meanness of the act! the meanness of the act! No, I can never trust him again. I can never bear to see his face again. I will not spend another day in his house. But where, oh, where shall I fly? I have no place in the world to go to! Or, if I had, there is no place to which he would not follow me—not to compel my return, though as my guardian he could do that. But he would not; he would do even worse; he would so humble himself to me, would so plead with me, would look so heart-broken that he would be sure to prevail with me and coax me back. Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! if I cannot trust him, neither can I trust myself! I hate him, and I fear him, and yet I pity him and love him, too! And who knows but that in some moment of idiotic pity I may not consent to all he pleads for and contract this repulsive marriage? Then I should go mad and murder him, or kill myself. That is what I am afraid of. That gulf of black ruin! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? Where can I fly from him and from myself? Who will save me from myself and from him? Oh, WHAT shall I do?” She leaned her head upon her hand and reflected intently for some minutes, but could think of no plan by which to escape.