Behind the flower her lips had parted in a smile half tremulous, half sad. “Memory is sweet to me,” she said. “Yet some would call it bitter. Here in heaven I am beloved, respected and esteemed, happy and free. On earth they still remember me as the sinful woman turned to Christ, and whilst extolling His boundless mercy in receiving such as I they ignore me altogether.” A half-malicious merriment shone into her eyes. “I died of a broken heart. I could not live without Him. It was very wrong, I know, and showed what poor stuff I was made of, but wherever I went after that early morning in the garden I saw Him calling me—always calling. I wasn’t the one that could preach or teach, I could only feel things, and often in the middle of the night I would wake and go through all the agony of those dumb dark hours upon the Cross. It didn’t make much difference to my outward life—no one quite understood me. They pitied me and wondered at me, just as the people do to-day; they thought Jesus very wonderful and merciful because He had made a friend of such as I, and for the most part they were all stern men and pure women, who loved me simply because they had been taught by Him. There was no one to lavish things upon, nothing to look forward to when grey dawn swept the night away, nothing to look back to but shame and contempt and pain and tragedy of cross and scourging, which was laughed at and mocked even by those who understood it best. And I had looked forward so to a glorious earthly kingdom. I had dreamt each night of the crown and purple robes He was to wear, regardless of His own sad, warning words. And on that gay entry into Jerusalem the week before His death my heart had leapt with joy. It seemed as if the prophecies were coming true. I went home to my own dark room and laughed and danced for happiness, and on the way I bought some stones—some imitation jewels—for what I had had gone long since. And there in my own little room I put them on, and a fine robe which, out of weakness, I had never parted with, and then I stood and saw the dim reflection of myself. “‘When the people crown Him king I shall be there,’ I whispered. ‘I shall wear my hair loose and decked with jewels, and all will say how beautiful I am though I have sinned.’ For in that moment of delirious joy I had forgotten that such as I are better absent. Nay—for the world gained deeper hold—I saw myself raised to a higher level than the women who looked down on me—no more stared at and laughed at by men—respecting and respected, loving and loved in turn. In happiness I felt a queen, yet He my king was so far removed above me that to call Him lord were title too small. “I dreamt—the delirious dream—the burning ball, the shining will-o’-the-wisp, and it lasted with me—not quite through the week. “Then the light went out, and it never properly lit again.