The solid earth seemed unsteady beneath my feet--almost I doubted whether I was indeed alive, or whether I was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to return from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all the fair, once precious things of by-gone days.

The splendid universe around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of God--no more a majestic marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness--a mere ball for devils to kick and spurn through space! Of what avail these twinkling stars--these stately leaf-laden trees--these cups of fragrance we know as flowers--this round wonder of the eyes called Nature?
of what avail was God Himself, I widely mused, since even He could not keep one woman true?
She whom I loved--she as delicate of form, as angel-like in face as the child-bride of Christ, St.
Agnes--she, even she was--what?
A thing lower than the beasts, a thing as vile as the vilest wretch in female form that sells herself for a gold piece--a thing--great Heaven!--for all men to despise and make light of--for the finger of Scorn to point out--for the foul hissing tongue of Scandal to mock at! This creature was my wife--the mother of my child--she had cast mud on her soul by her own free will and choice--she had selected evil as her good--she had crowned herself with shame willingly, nay--joyfully; she had preferred it to honor.

What should be done?
I tortured myself occasionally with this question.

I stared blankly on the ground--would some demon spring from it and give me the answer I sought?
What should be done with HER--with HIM, my treacherous friend, my smiling betrayer?
Suddenly my eyes lighted on the fallen rose-leaves--those that had dropped when Guido's embrace had crushed the flower she wore.

There they lay on the path, curled softly at the edges like little crimson shells.