It was not that she condemned herself for having refused to pay the price which would have saved her father; she may have done so in her wildest paroxysms of grief, but in the silences which ensued she knew that there is an arbiter above natural affection, and that not with impunity could a life be purchased by the death of a soul.

She had refused; it might be she would still have refused had she foreseen the worst; but could she move on over her father's body to a life of joy?
Not only did piety forbid it; the compassionate voice of her heart cried against what she deemed such cruelty.

Her father was dead; nothing that she did henceforth would concern him for good or ill; none the less in her eyes was his claim upon her, the claim of one she had tenderly loved calling to her for pity from that desolate grave.
Which of us entirely out-reasons that surviving claim of the beloved dead?
Which of us would, in his purest hour, desire to do so?
She could not save him, but, as she valued her most precious human privileges, she dared not taste the fruits of life of which he was for ever robbed.
Between her and happiness loomed that agonising face, She might disregard it, might close her eyes and press on, might live down the old sacred pity and give herself to absorbing bliss what would be the true value of that she gained?
Nay, it was idle to affect that she had the choice.

She felt that the first memory of that face in the midst of enjoyment would break her heart.

Those last dark hours of his she must live and relive in her own mind.