* * * * * She stayed a long while. Over all the garden and across the open windows, the moon was shining when I heard her step upon the doorway. It had a weary sound. Those feet which had begun so bravely were tired out already. Still had I no fear for her. She might have stayed until the gray dawn cleft the black of night and not one doubt of her could sting my faith. She climbed the stairs wearily, as if old age had of a sudden caught and cramped the young life in her feet; and listening thus I swore a mighty oath against the thing called Fate. She so young, so strong, so willing, so full of aspiration, so loyal to faith and honor, with _every_ door barred against her. O my God! was there none, not one human heart open to her cry? Was there but one resource--one opening for her pure soul and her proud heart--the harlot's door? O my God! my God! women are driven to it every day, every day. Is it, indeed, the only door that opens to their knock? And would she, too, seek it at last, when faith should be quite dead? No, never! not while my palsied fingers could find strength to draw a knife across her throat. I arose, and went to find her in her room. The door stood slightly open, and I entered, softly. Why so softly, I never could have told; only it seemed the proper thing to do. She had thrown herself across the bed, near by the open window. The moonlight flooded the room, showing me the strong, pale face lying against the pillow. Her white dress fell about her like a silverish shroud; and on the table near the window where she had sat to finish her task lay a manuscript. The moonlight fell upon the title page with mocking splendor. I stooped and read: "'_Thou art our Refuge and our Strength._'" Dear heart! dear, sad soul! She had sought her refuge and indeed found strength. Strength! I brand him liar who calls it other. One hand lay on the coverlid beside her, and one upon her breast half hidden by the dark blood-roses covering her heart. And that heart when I placed my hand over it--was still. _Broken!_ who dares say _suicide_? I say it was the grandest blow that weakness struck for virtue,--her life, offered in the name of outraged womanhood. The choice lay open. Shame or suicide! and like the real woman that she was, she made her choice for virtue. Conquered by fate, overcome by adversity, those who should have been helpers turned tempters. Who dares meet God in his soul and say she did not choose the better part? "'Thou art our Refuge and our Strength.'" I whispered it above her grave and left her there, under the stars and broken lily buds. But when the grand Jack roses bloom, I always think of her, and thinking, I ponder again the same old riddle, _Fate_, whose edict swears, "No room for honest poverty; no niche for such as she." And thinking thus I wonder,--where shall the blame rest? Whose shall the crime be? THE HEIRESS OF THE RIDGE. NO-NAME PAPER.