Yesterday Lillie went away. Mr. Guard took her to the mountains where a woman he used to know in the days of his mission work will take care of her. He is coming back to-morrow. The sense of comfort that his coming means is beyond analysis or definition. Only once or twice in a lifetime does one meet a man of David Guard's sort, and whatever my mistakes, whatever my impulses and lack of judgment may lead me to do, he will never be impatient with me. We have had several long and frank and friendly talks since the day he brought Lillie in to Mrs. Mundy, and if Scarborough Square did no more for me than to give me his friendship I should be forever in its debt. Early this morning I had a dream I have been trying all day to forget. Through the first part of the night sleep had been impossible. The haunting memory of Lillie's eyes could not be shut out, and the sound of her voice made the stillness of the room unendurable. I tried to read, to write, to do anything but think. I fought, resisted; refused to face what I did not want to see, to listen to what I did not want to hear; and not until the dawn of a new day did I fall asleep. In my dream Lillie was in front of me, the bit of wall-flower in her hands, and gaspingly she cried out that something should be done. "It can never be made clean, the world we women live in. But there should never be such worlds. Good women pretend they do not know. They do not want to know!" "But, Lillie"--I tried to hold her twisting, writhing hands. "There is much that has been done. Some women do know, and homes and institutions and societies--" "Homes and institutions and societies!" She drew her hands away in scornful gesture. "They are poultice and plaster things. They are for surface sores, and the trouble is in the blood. To cure, to cleanse, undo the evil of our world is not in human power. It's the root of the tree that must be killed. You can cut off its top for a thousand years and it will come back again. Women have got to go deeper than that and make men know that they'll be damned the same as we if they sin the same as we do." She was slipping from me and I tried to hold her back. "Tell me what women must do! Tell me where they fail!" In terror I caught her hands. "Do not go until you tell me--" In misty grayness she was vanishing. "When women make their sons know there is no less of sin and shame in sinful, shameful lives for them than for their sisters our worlds will pass away. You've got to stop the evil at the source. Men don't do what women won't stand for. Tell women that--" She was gone and, waking, I found I was sitting up in bed, my hands outstretched. I had a note from Selwyn to-day telling me the Swinks had come and are at the Melbourne. Harrie is not well.