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What a foe the imagination can be--what a foe! She got up and went to
the window. She must drive away that memory of the ravine, of all that
followed after. Often she lingered with it, but to-night, somehow, she
could not, she dared not. She was less brave than usual to-night.
She leaned out of the window.
"Am I a fool?"
That was what she was saying to herself. And she was comparing herself
now with other people, other women. Did she know one who could not
uproot an old memory, who could suffer, and desire, and internally
weep, after more than sixteen years?
"I suppose it is preposterous."
She deliberately chose that ugly word to describe her own condition of
soul. But instantly it seemed to her as if far down in that soul
something rose up and answered:
"No, it is not. It is beautiful. It is divine. It is more--it is due.
He gave you the greatest gift. He gave you what the whole world is
always seeking; even in blindness, even in ignorance, even in terrible
vice.


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