my mind, my dearie, before you tell me
yours?"

As if aware that the silence had been
broken without being aware what had been
said, the other answered, not what was now
said, but something she had let pass
unanswered long before.

"But for it," with a gesture towards
the child, "I never should wish to leave
you. There would be no reason why I
should ever leave you. I would stay here
always, till I die. If it hadn't lived, as I
hoped it mightn't, or if you'd sent it away,
as I thought you would, somewhere where
I need never have seen it, nor heard of it
again, then, oh so thankfully, I'd have
stayed here always. But it did live, and
you say you can't send it away; you say it
comforts you for the loss of your own, so,
as it must stay, I must go,"

"Comforts me! Ay, indeed does it!
And it would comfort you, as nothing else
in this world ever can, if only you'd not
harden your heart against it."

With no notice of this interruption,
beyond a slight shiver of disgust, the girl
went on:

"So, as I must go, as I can't stay here
always, as I can't hide myself here, out of
the world, till I die, I'll try and lose
myself in the world. I'll separate myself
from you, though you're the only creature
I love, and that loves me; I'll go to some
strange place with this strange woman; I'll
try and forget you, with all else that belongs
to the past. I'll strip off my wedding-ring
and my widow's mourning, and try to strip
off the memory of what they stand for: I'll
deny, even to myself, that I've worn either.
Widow's mourning! as if I could mourn
for him! No, but I mourn for myself, for
my life that he soiled and spoiled, so that
for me there's neither memory nor hope:
the very air I breathe is poisoned. It seems
to smell sweet to-night," she said, lifting
her face and looking out. "To you it does
smell sweet, nurse, doesn't it? But to me
there's still the smell of blood in it, the
sickening smell of blood!"

The other sorrowfully noticing the growing
excitement of voice and the wandering
wildness of eye, only sighed out:

"It's terrible to hate the dead."

"Let me forget, then, and I shall leave off
hating."

"It may be God's will that you should
remember and forgive."

"Forgive!" she echoed.

Another pause, and then the girl spoke
again:

"If I put all my heart, and soul, and
strength into one prayer—to be able to
forget—I can't think but God will hear
me. It isn't much to ask, to forget, only
to forget, yet it's all I ask. Though I'm
young still, I don't ask joy or hope, but
only to forget."

"There's one thing you can't forget.
One thing you can't strip off you, or tear
out of you, or bury away from you. There's
no stone heavy enough to keep it down.
It's the mother's heart that's in you, and
that, one day, will stir and wake. If, one
day, you marry again, and bear other
children—-"

"Marry again! Bear other children!
Never! I will never own that child, or
my hateful marriage. These unowned
things will stand always between me and
love. Love! What do I want with love?
What have I to do with love? I want only
peace, peace and to forget."

"You feel like that now; but as you
say, dearie, you're young; you may have
long to live, it's dreary to live always
alone. If only you'd not take a lie upon
you. Ah, Miss Daisy"—the once familiar
name in her earnestness slipped out
unawares—"don't do it, don't do it. There
was one, as once loved you, I always
believe will never rest till he finds you!"

"You're mad, nurse! you're mad! Do,
you think I'd feel myself fit for him, ever,
on this side the grave? As for my being
young—I am not young. I can never be
young any more. When I see myself in
the glass, I wonder that my hair isn't white,
that my flesh isn't shrivelled, that my eyes
are not dim, that my face doesn't tell of
the horrible things it has looked upon."

"But it's not so. Men will see it's not
so. In time you'll come to feel it's not so:
some spring the blood will dance in your
veins, and the world will seem beautiful,
and you'll feel that, cost what it may, you
must love and be happy before you die.
And what's to hinder? If only you'll be
patient till this madness of misery is past,
and not take a lie upon you. What but
pity could any good man feel for—-"

"It's what I feel about myself that
would hinder," the girl broke in; "but
it's no use talking. My mind is made up.
I shall go to her."

"I wish no better than that you should
go to her, dearie; but as what you are,
not with a lie upon you. Leave the child
with me yet awhile, as is needful for it,
and best for you; but go to her as a widow
and a mother."