again, while I, bruised, broken, starving, knew
there was no change and no help for me! So I
waited till the rain went by, and drenched and
streaming, and thinking of the sheep, I very
cautiously picked my way home, taking the
utmost care of my precious life and limbs, and half
laughing at myself the while that I was willingly
and knowingly going back to my bitter, endless
pain of heart, choosing it instead of a few hours,
or even it might be days, of pain of body!

            *             *             *             *

"How shall I bear it? He, my husband,
has asked my one and only and ever-beloved
lover into this house! And Barry has accepted,
and is coming with the rest.

"Does Cornelius know that Barry was the
man I loved? I never breathed his name to
Cornelius, and perhaps he only knows him as
my cousin. That would seem the natural
explanation, but all his ways are so dark and
tortuous, that it is impossible to guess at the
motives of his actions. Well, things must take
their course, and some one must be sacrificed,
who remains to be seen. Why does Barry
accept? Why does he put me in this position?
How cruel! And yet, knowing nothing of the
circumstances of my marriage, how cruel he
must think me—how deserving of all the pain
and humiliation he can inflict on me! Perhaps,
too, he may have some guess at the truth, and
wants to judge for himself how far I am innocent
or guilty. And if he does learn ....

".... all the hopelessness of the situation
he will not see, and oh, how can I withstand
him? I feel I am being dragged on, on, and I
have nothing—God help me—to cling to.

"September 17. The first time I have opened
my journal since June. Let me go back, and
think of what has happened to change the
whole course of my life since I wrote that last
paragraph. I must do something to keep my
mind from wandering. Yes, the ball, that was
what brought it all about. The day before,
coming into my room from a walk with Mary, I
found a box on my dressing-table; opening it, it
contained a wreath of pink heath, and a letter in
Barry's writing. Ah! the leap my heart made,
as it used to do in the old days, at the sight!

"He asked me to fly with him; that was the
tenor of it. If I consented, I was to wear the
wreath at the ball—if not, the white one my
husband last gave me; so I was to signify the
choice between them. If I wore the pink, I
was to propose games after supper hide-and-
seek and when it was my turn to hide, I was
to go to my room, take a hat and cloak, and a
bundle of such things as I immediately required,
and slip down the back stairs; there he and
one of his boatmen, on whom he could rely,
would take me down to the beach, we should
embark at once, and be out of the bay before
suspicion was awakened. If I wore the white
wreath, he would leave Rosscreagh the next day,
as had been arranged, and would never trouble
me more. Thus, briefly told, the long, passionate,
earnest letter spoke. Before next night my mind
was made up to wear the pink wreath.

"Ah, his face when I entered the room with
it on! How the evening went by I cannot
tell; I was in a dream, but I never lost my
presence of mind, or forgot for a moment how
and when everything was to be done.

"At last—the final step was to be taken I
rushed to my room, took from a closet the
things I wanted, and, at the door, met—my
husband! In his face, in the grasp he laid on my
arm—the bruise remained for days—I read all.

"He led me, unresistingly and helpless, to
his dressing-room, shut and locked the door.
'Take off that wreath/ he said. I obeyed.
'Now'—placing writing materials before me—
'write as I shall dictate.' 'Never!' I
answered. 'Write!' And he grasped my arm
again, and crushed me down into a seat before
the table, and put the pen into my trembling
fingers, once more saying, 'Write!' And I
wrote as he bid me.

"'I have changed my mind. I cannot go
with you. Forgive me. Keep the wreath; it
is the last token that can ever pass between us.

                                                       "'NORA.'

"Then my husband deliberately put the
flowers and the note into the box, which he
had already possessed himself of, and again
taking my arm, led me, as he would a child,
back to my room. 'Go to bed,' he said; and
went out, locking the door behind him.

"I never saw Barry more, and never shall to
the day I die.

             *             *             *             *

"November 30. I hope I may die soon. I no
longer feel that upspringing of strong young life
in me that used to assure me, often so
unwelcomely, that death and I had nothing in
common. Now it seems as if the principle of
life were slowly dying down, for all feeling is
numbed within me. Joy, of course, there is
no more for me on earth, but pain, fear, and
anger are nearly as dead. My husband gives
out that the curse of my race has fallen upon
me—that I am mad. I care not; the confinement
he imagines he imposes on me is quite as
much a matter of choice as of necessity on my
part. I—"

Here ended the part of the manuscript that
related the actual events of the poor lady's life;
the few remaining pages were merely fragments
written at intervals during the weary years that
she had waited for death.

They certainly bore no traces of insanity, but
it was easy to comprehend how the broken spirit
had succumbed, and been made to lend itself
to the plans of a man so cruel, so determined,
and so utterly unscrupulous.

Now ready, bound in cloth, price 5s. 6d.,
VOLUME THE SEVENTEENTH.

Published at the Office, Ko. 20. Wellington Street- Strand. Printed by C. WHITING. Beaufort House, Strand.