She shed bitter tears while I stood by, thinking. At length I said: “I have come on purpose to take you away from this hell, and we will go at once.” “I am ready! Thank God, I am ready now!” she exclaimed. I went out and called a gari and on returning, found she had put all she wanted in her bag, and taking her baby boy, we were soon on the way to the railway station. Before the train came in, she took a piece of paper and wrote, “Gone, to return no more, for you have lied to me,—Clara Strangway.” This was enclosed in an envelope and addressed to “H. J. Smith, Commissioner,” and dropped in the postal box. We reached our home, and a new life for her commenced. We were happy in a brother and sister’s love and care, as much so as we could be, except for the thoughts of that cursed part in her last few years. No one asked questions, and we told none our secret. She passed in sight as my widowed sister. Was she not a widow, in a cursed widowhood? Not long after, a young Eurasian gentleman of good family and business, became acquainted with her and proposed marriage. She told him the whole story, concealing nothing. They were married, and lead a happy life. It seemed that I had lived a dozen lives in that short time. Life is a comedy to those who think, and a tragedy to those who feel. Mine surely was a tragedy, terribly real. Thus ended another episode in my life, ended only in part, for it was burned into my memory to remain forever. What a blessing if there were some erasive to remove the foul stains from memory! But no, it cannot be; not God himself can do it. A blessing? No, a curse, for the good too might then be erased as well, and so we are to keep all, the good and also the evil, and forever. CHAPTER XVIII. I was alone again. I sought company in my books. They were friends whom I could trust, and would not leave or betray me. I also busied myself in my garden, and in looking after my property. I often went to my villages. There was nothing that gave me so much satisfaction as to see the happiness and prosperity of those people. They were not all good, or without faults by any means, but what people are? I had found more sinners than saints among the upper class of society, so why should I expect anything more from these ignorant villagers? I say upper class. I don’t know why, except it is the fashion, good form, or something of that style. They may be upper, that is, ahead in shameless dishonesty, in gilded fashion, deceptive force, in skillful lying, willful seduction and foul unchastity. If that is the meaning of the term, I accept it, but the real genuine upper class of the world is what are called the common people.