“He may live some time yet.” The girl wrapped the child up in the blanket; the fierceness in her eyes did not prevent the gentle touches of her hands. “I ’ate God, so there! an’ I ’ate the club! an’ I ’ate you and the other lidy! I ’ate you all!” she cried hoarsely. Then suddenly the anger died out of her face; she turned hopelessly to the door, pausing irresolutely she asked again in dull despair, “Then there isn’t hanythink as you can do?” “Very little, I’m afraid.” She drew the blanket closer round the child and passed out into the night. It was late and Muriel had gone to bed. Cynthia came in and sat down by her. “Do you think a man would ever trust a girl a second time?” she asked. “That would depend, wouldn’t it,” said Muriel thoughtfully, “upon the girl’s character, and the attitude towards the broken trust, and how long ago it had happened, and what she had done in the meantime?” “Do you think it possible if she was different that he would love her again?” Muriel sighed. “I would have married Jack,” she said, “if he had been different, but he was the same. I suppose it all depends on whether one’s power of detachment is strong enough.” “You’re very tired, dearest,” said Cynthia, “and I shouldn’t bother you; but—but I suppose you pray, don’t you?” Muriel smiled; she did not say she had done nothing else since she had forfeited her life’s happiness. “Yes, I try to,” she said. “Then,” said Cynthia, “perhaps you might as well pray for me. Good-night!” CHAPTER XVII “Our mind receives but what it holds—no more.” PEOPLE whom everybody considers tender-hearted and good-natured do not like to wake up to the fact that they are neither. It takes a good deal to wake them up to it, and they are apt to be indignant and incredulous even then. Gladys had always been considered particularly, gracefully unselfish. People might think her a little astonishing and unconventional, but this they put down to her American training; as for being underhand, cruel and grasping, no one would have dreamed it of her, and she least of all of herself. Love is a teacher of many lessons, and tears away all screens; there is no room left for anything but the real. Love and pain together are the two world forces for sincerity, and Gladys’ sincerity was not pleasant to look at. She was possessed with the one desire—Jack. She wanted him; she hated everything and everybody else. Right and wrong became two faint, inadequate words; she would have stopped at nothing to gain her ends. Even the dramatic instinct which had carried her through emotional friendships made her attractive and alluring to those to whom she was utterly indifferent, devout and regular in her religious attendances, eager and sympathetic over the miseries of the poor, they were all swept away. She planned, plotted, schemed and lived to meet and win Jack Hurstly.