By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself, the inevitable reaction was setting in.

"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit brows. The fire—it was a long time since she had sat beside one—gave out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene, stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she struggled indeed against it.

She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion, something of a nervous shock.

The address was that of a hospital.

"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."

Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an irrelevant subject.

"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly, "and her mother came down to be near her—but dear me, that girl always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see you, or sending messages, or anything."

"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants me to come and see her, and I think"—she hesitated a moment—"I think I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met with some faint opposition.

Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.

"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips of each.

"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"—she stopped.

"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"—she faltered as a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you—you must see him. He has been so unhappy. He—he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away her hand.

"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it—it would be more painful than seeing Amanda. And—if he loves me, why, so much the worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest thing I can do for him is—not to see him?" And then the tears sprang to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.

When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out, in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied a black veil over her face.

"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if—if anything happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both affectionately. "You—you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.

"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said, feebly.

Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to see what it's like—I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh, but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more.

Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling, and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter day—the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year—almost there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness. She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or innocent.

She was very tired when she reached the hospital, and the meeting with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door—the hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown. There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her name.

Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother.

"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it."

Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she said.

"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for that matter. But lor'—what difference does it make, as long as you've got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that girl at——who committed that murder that everybody talked about—she got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman."

Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda."

A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"—she broke off abruptly as one of their number entered.

She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently, but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was, besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope, though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had talked a great deal. All this time there was not a word, not a curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful.

The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings of many an occupant of the room.

Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller, more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted across her face—it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or fear, or perhaps a mingling of both.

"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all her greeting. Elizabeth, embarrassed, murmured a few words of sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister, with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone.

Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation.

"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened eagerly upon her face.

"Why, you—you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice.

Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that, Amanda," she said.

"I didn't think anything could be worse—to you," Amanda said, feebly.

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet produced in Amanda any regenerating effect.

"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily, after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of me still." She sank into a gloomy silence.

Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape, since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint. But suddenly Amanda turned to her.

"I've something I want to tell you," she said, speaking feebly and with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I—would; she said that if there was any—any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my mind to—tell you. But first you must promise"—she looked about her suspiciously—"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't repeat—anything I tell you."

She raised herself up on her pillows, her breath came in convulsive gasps, she fixed her eyes intently upon Elizabeth. "Promise," she said, in her weak, hoarse voice, "swear to me on your oath that you won't—repeat what I tell you now."

Elizabeth trembled, her brain felt dazed. Those strained, eager eyes held her with a terrible insistence. "I—I promise," she repeated, hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them withdrawn.

Amanda sank back as if relieved, on the pillows, but still she questioned, with a look of doubt. "You won't break your word. You are sure?"

"Quite sure," said Elizabeth. Her brain still seemed dazed, her lips moved mechanically.

Amanda seemed satisfied. Still, she did not speak, she lay quiet, with half-closed eyes. At last, with a painful effort, she raised herself up, and fixed her eyes again intently upon Elizabeth. "I sent the poison," she said. The words came in a hoarse whisper.

Elizabeth stared at her without moving; only a slight shudder passed through her. The words echoed in her ear, beat upon her brain. The odd part of it was that they did not surprise her. She seemed somehow to have heard, or thought them, before.

"Yes," Amanda repeated, after a moment, "I sent the poison. It was after I had left the sanitarium—no one knew that I had left it. I dressed as like you as I could, I copied your handwriting, I knew they would think it was you. But I didn't"—a slight undertone of contempt made itself felt in her voice—"I didn't know how easy it would be, for I didn't suppose you'd do all those stupid things that made them suspect you."

She was silent. Elizabeth still stared at her motionless, aghast. "But why—why," she faltered, "what object, Amanda, could you have?"

A look of intense bitterness crossed the sick girl's face. She seemed to flare up all at once into a red heat of anger, as dry, withered wood will sometimes give out the fiercest flames. "What object!" she repeated. "You ask what object!—and you know how he scorned me! Didn't you wish him to die? You admitted it in court—because he stood in your way; and do you think that is anything to being humiliated—dragged in the dust, as I was?"

She leaned back panting on the pillows; the fierce flame of anger which passed over her seemed to consume her feeble strength. When she spoke again it was much more feebly. "That time when I—I went to him at the studio," she said, "I thought maybe he'd come back to me again—seeing you didn't seem to want him. I thought—but there, I was a fool. Most women are, I guess, when they care about a man. He laughed at me and said that I'd deceived myself—that it was I who did the love-making. That was a lie, but it was what he said, I guess, about most girls—when he got tired of them. I got wild, it seemed as if my brain was on fire, and I—I threatened him. He only laughed. And then I taunted him—about you; that seemed to hurt him more. I said as how you had so many beaux, you didn't care any longer about him. He said then, I was mistaken, that you were just as fond of him as ever—really, that you would do anything he wanted"—

She paused, her breath seemed to fail her. Elizabeth sat listening, stupefied, incapable of speech or motion. Amanda went on presently, huddling one word upon another: "I didn't believe him, I thought it was only to make me feel worse. And then, when I went out, I met you—the thought came to me that I'd find out the truth. I came back, I'd left the door open, I saw you give him money—but there was a look on your face that made me think you didn't do it—for love."

She paused again and struggled for breath. Elizabeth spoke involuntarily. "But how did you know," she asked, "about the pearls?"

"What, that you'd sold them?" Amanda spoke quietly, with a slight smile, as at the simplicity of the question. "I knew it the moment I saw you—that evening, and you didn't have them on. Then when I spoke of them, I saw I was right—I saw how I'd frightened you. There was a secret—I didn't know what; but it was something you were ashamed of. Then, when you got engaged to that other man, I understood—I knew you were afraid of his finding it out. I used to write to him, warning him. He never answered my letters, or paid any attention—I guess he thought I was crazy; but I had to keep on writing—I couldn't help it, somehow. I had to do everything I did. It seemed as if something urged me on. The only thing that kept me from—from having my revenge was that you might reap the benefit. And then this plan came to me, and I saw how I could—get even—with you both."

The hoarse, feeble voice grew fainter and died away, as if from sheer exhaustion. Elizabeth interposed an indignant protest. "And so," she said, "you wanted me to suffer—for your crime? You would have been glad if they had found me guilty?"

Amanda did not answer for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I didn't want you to die. I knew you'd get off—every one said so—because you were so pretty and so swell. They wouldn't"—the bitter smile again hovered about her white lips—"they wouldn't have said that about me. But—if they had found you guilty"—she paused—"I had quite made up my mind to confess. It was horrible lying here, thinking it over—I don't believe death can be worse. You couldn't have suffered—anything like it; for you were innocent."

She looked at Elizabeth with a strange horror in her eyes. Her face was ghastly, beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, and on the little rings of dark red hair, which clung about her temples. "Oh, you don't know what it is," she said, "you don't know what it is. It's the thought of that that's killing me inch by inch; it's not the disease. And yet I'm afraid—I'm afraid to confess"—her voice broke piteously. "You don't want me to—do you?—now that you've got off. It won't do you any good—any longer, and as for me, though I don't want to live, I'm afraid—to die." The feeble voice again faltered and died away.

Elizabeth sat silent, her brain in a whirl. Before her there rose the thought of the long months of torture, the prison cell, the terrible, unnecessary suspicion that still clouded her life.... If Amanda would confess, it would be something. People would never again believe her guilty. And yet!——

Mechanically, her eyes wandered about the room, the incongruous setting for this strange scene—bright, calm and peaceful; filled with the pictures of martyred saints. Her gaze lingered fascinated on the face of Christ in the engraving. It might have been the effect of the light, or the over-wrought state of her nerves which made it appear so real, instinct with mysterious life and power. Almost it seemed as if the lips moved, the sorrowful eyes rested, with a look of infinite pity, on Amanda ... ... "You won't betray me?" the feeble voice pleaded. "I trusted you—you promised? You won't break your word?"

"No"—Elizabeth spoke slowly and thoughtfully—"I won't break my word. I did break a promise I made you once, and repented it, ever since; but this time I shall keep it. If you confess, it must be for your own sake, not for mine. No one I care about believes me guilty. Let it go."

Amanda drew a sigh of relief. Her head fell back, her attitude of tension relaxed insensibly.

"You are very generous," she said, faintly. "I—I won't be ungrateful." And then a silence fell upon them. Amanda's eyes closed, she seemed exhausted. Elizabeth, seeing this, got up.

"I had better go. You're very tired." No answer came. But as she reached the door Amanda's eyes unclosed, she turned her face towards her.

"Good-bye," she said. "I'm sorry you've—lost your looks. Perhaps you'll—get them back." The words came out with a great effort. And then she turned her face away and said no more.

The Sister was waiting outside in the corridor. She accompanied Elizabeth to the door of the hospital.

As they parted she laid her hand for an instant on the girl's arm, her grave, clear eyes scanned the white, exhausted face.

"My dear," she said, "did your cousin tell you—what she sent for you to say?"

Elizabeth met her gaze firmly, with eyes as clear as her own. "It is a secret," she said, quietly. "I promised—not to repeat it."

A cloud passed over the Sister's face; her hand rested for a moment tenderly on Elizabeth's arm. "Poor child!" was all she said. It would have been hard to tell to whom she referred—Elizabeth or Amanda.

An instant later the great hospital door swung to, and Elizabeth found herself again in the outside world.

Amanda lay absolutely still. She was conscious, for the moment, of nothing but the utter vacuity of exhaustion. It was only little by little that her strength revived, her brain began to work, those thoughts weighed upon her again, which were killing her inch by inch.

It is hard to understand the processes of a mind like Amanda's, diseased perhaps from the first, made more so, as life went on, by illness and adverse circumstances. As to how far she was accountable, who can decide?...

One thing is certain, that some sort of moral struggle now took place within her. Her brow was contracted, her lips moved, now and then she stirred uneasily. Her piteous gaze fastened half unconsciously, as Elizabeth's had done, on the face of the Christ in the engraving. For her as for Elizabeth, the pictured eyes held a curious fascination. But we read into inanimate objects, above all the symbols of our faith, our own thoughts and convictions. It was not pity which Amanda saw in the sorrowful eyes which to her, too, seemed alive with a singular power.

When the Sister came in, a little later, she asked her a question.

"Isn't it enough if we confess our sins?" she asked, feebly. "You said that would be enough to have them forgiven."

The Sister looked down at her gravely. "Repentance is not enough," she said, "unless we do what we can to make amends."

Amanda turned away with a feeble moan.

It was late in the afternoon when she nerved herself, as for a great effort. She called the Sister to her and whispered. What she said did not seem to cause surprise. The Sister's face brightened, she left the room quickly. It was evident that she was prepared for an emergency like this. An hour later the small room was filled—there was a lawyer, witnesses.... Amanda's weak voice spoke steadily, without a pause....

When it was over, she sank back exhausted, and her eyes again sought the face in the engraving. She found there what she expected. With a long sigh of relief she turned her face to the wall and slept. The Sister quietly pulled down the blind.

"She will rest now," she said softly, and it was true. Amanda never awoke.