“My father will be able to find the murderer,” said Juanita, scarcely hearing her mother’s words, intent upon her own thought. “A great lawyer as he was; a judge, too; he must be able to trace the murderer—to bring him to justice—to take a life for a life. Oh, God!” with a shrill agonizing cry, “could a thousand lives give me back one hour of that one life? Yet it will be something—something—to know that his murderer has been killed—killed shamefully, in cold blood, in the broad light of day. Oh, God, thou Avenger of wrong, make his last hours bitter to him, make his last moments hopeless; let him see the gates of hell opening before him when he stands trembling with the rope round his neck.” There was an intensity of hatred in this vindictive appeal, which thrilled the two listeners with an icy horror. It was like a blast from a frozen region blowing suddenly in their faces, and they shivered as they heard. Could it be the girl they knew, the loving, lovable girl, who, in those deep, harsh tones, called upon her God for vengeance and not for mercy? “Oh, my love, my poor heart-broken love, pray to Him to have pity upon us; ask Him to teach us how to bow to the rod, how to bear His chastisement. That is the lesson we have to learn,” pleaded Lady Jane, tearful and submissive, even in the depth of sorrow. “Is it? _My_ lesson is to see justice done upon the wretch who killed my husband—the malignant, the merciless devil. There was not one of those slayers of women and children in the Indian mutiny worse than the man who killed my love. What had _he_ done—he, the kindest and best—generous, frank, pitiful to all who ever came in his way—what had _he_ done to provoke any man’s enmity? Oh, God, when I remember how good he was, and how much brighter and better the world was for having him——” She began to pace the room, as she had paced it again and again in her slow hours of agony, her hands clasped above her dishevelled head, her great dark eyes—so dovelike in their hours of love and happiness—burning with an angry light, lurid almost, in the excitement of her fevered brain. There had been times when Lady Jane had feared that reason must give way altogether amidst this wild delirium of grief. She had stayed to watch, and to console, forgetting her own broken heart, putting aside all considerations of her own sorrow as something that might have its way afterwards, in order to comfort this passionate mourner. Comfort, even from affection such as this, was unavailing. Now and again the girl turned her burning eyes upon the mother’s pale, resigned face, and for a moment a thought of that chastened, gentle grief softened her. “Dear, dear Lady Jane, God made you better than any other woman on this earth, I believe,” she cried amidst her anguish. “The saints and martyrs must have been like you, but I am not. I am not made like that. I _cannot_ kiss the rod.”