And after a long time her lips moved, repeating: "The glory of forgiveness--the glory of forgiveness----" Her heart was beating very hard and fast as her thoughts ran on.
"To forgive--help him--teach truth--nobler ideals----" She could not rest; sleep, if it really came, was a ghostly thing that mocked her.

And all the next day she roamed about the house, haunted with the consciousness of where his letter lay locked in her desk.

And that day she would not read it again; but the next day she read it.

And the next.
And if it were her desire to see him once again before all ended irrevocably for ever--or if it was what her heart was striving to tell her, that he was in need of aid against himself, she could not tell.

But she wrote him: "It is not you who have written this injury for my eyes to read, but another man, demoralised by the world's cruelty--not knowing what he is saying--hurt to the soul, not mortally.