I am not sure that I responded to the cue which some seconds later brought her into my arms. (We were fellow Nihilists under arrest.) The contact of her hand against mine ... Will told me afterwards he would never have believed me possessed of such physical strength. I choked her.... I drove my nails into her flesh.... I dragged her to the wings and beat her with my fists.... I vented upon her the long pent-up fury.... Oh, the shame, the ignominy of it! I, who resented a vicious influence upon my unborn child--I, its mother, had descended to the level of a fishwife!... It was Margherita who brought me back to consciousness; it was she who restored to me a modicum of my self-respect. I believe she was secretly pleased at what I had done. That night, as she sat beside my bed, she told me something of herself. As a young girl she possessed a wonderful singing voice. Her parents--poor Italians--who came to America when she was a babe in arms, could not afford proper masters. She went on the stage to support herself, hoping to earn enough to pay for her musical education. Her beauty attracted a patron "of the arts"; at least, that is the way he was referred to in the newspapers. But it was not Margherita's art that he cared about--it was the woman. He considered his money a fair exchange for her body; Margherita was not willing to pay the price. She struggled on, and one day, after several years of hazardous existence, she found herself stranded in a far Western city without money, without friends. In a state of despondency she had walked to the outskirts of the town, and there in a lonely wood she sat down to fight out a choice between life and death. In a moment of emotion she burst forth into song; her troubled soul found solace in Gounod's _Ave Maria_. At the end her voice broke, and she sobbed. A hand was laid on her shoulder. It was a big hand, strong and sinewy. The man that went with it was big--"big all the way through," Margherita said proudly. They were married not long after; ever since he had remained at her side, helping to fight for a clean career ... making her life's work his.... Dear Margherita! I can see you now, with your glorious black eyes, your coronet of raven hair with the poppies over your pretty ear.... Oh, the pity of it! Weakened by the hardships and privation her life entailed, she died a few years later.... When Will came into the room that night, he held a paper in his hand. It was our resignation. His eyes twinkled with humour when he told Margherita that he was taking the bull by the horns, and sparing us the ignominy of dismissal. I was glad to see he was not angry with me. Then Margherita whispered something into his ear. He came to the bed and took me in his arms, and what he said concerns only a man and wife.... Margherita stole away, but before she went she kissed us both, and there were tears in her eyes.