Heavy with shame, thinking of those two--_things_--below, she slipped to the floor and tried to pray--for the souls of the dead and the peace of the living. But her knees stiffened. She stumbled to her feet, moaning. A grotesque memory beat in on her. She remembered the old superstition--that no witch could shed a tear; that this was the witches’ most bitter punishment. Well, here was hers. She could not pray. She had sinned, but she had come through the fire. She was faithful to Conifer with a double fervor. She had a high constancy and love which the mere faithful wife, who has never been tempted, cannot attain. Still--she must bear the burden--of an interlude--all her days. * * * * * She was out of sorts for a long time afterward--taking no interest in her bees, her poultry,--they are rose-comb Andalusians, she told me impressively,--or her children. The local doctor said that her nerves were all wrong. He recommended raw eggs and a thorough change. Conifer has brought her up to town. He has been taking her the round of the theaters--French plays, farces--imagine her sitting through them! On this, her first free night--he’s dining with a City company--she came to me! came creeping through the Inn in the old way, because she couldn’t help it. What an impulsive, delightful, compromising fool a true woman is! I only met her twice--for a minute, by accident--with Kinsman--and yet she came to me to-night. Put herself absolutely in my power. I might blackmail her as Kinsman did. I might tell Conifer. Fortunately for her I shan’t. She sat and talked, elaborated every detail, shredded every sensation, just as Pray did. I wish these remorseful, perplexed, sinned against and sinning people would not come to me. They shove their skeletons in my face, rattling every bone, speaking of the past--always, always the past--to a fellow who wants to keep young, who doesn’t feel his age. MORTGAGED. I HAVE told you about Kinsman--his china and oak, his flirtations--never from the heart--his downfall and sorry end. Poor Kinsman! Like most born bad lots he was a charming companion. If it had not been for the apocryphal aristocratic connections to whom he persistently alluded, he would have been perfect. He was so charmingly enthusiastic over his curios; such a solemn enthusiasm--the only earnest thing about him. Yet over the affair of that one supreme curio he kept rigid silence. He told me; but it was a couple of years later--when the Inn had ceased to talk about Harrowsmith. A couple of years later! By then Kinsman had lived down the first strength of his angry regret. He told me fully, lovingly, sadly, opening out his passionate collector’s soul. He made me understand the full virility of those odd emotions which had once fired and wasted him.