Gentle reader, we could not if we would, and we would not if we could, lead you through the darkened chambers of Erma's soul on the days succeeding the trial and sentence of her brother. The aching of the cords of love that bound her to John, the fear of the reproach of her dead mother, the jubilation of the mob, the seeming abandonment of her by Providence, were too much for her human frame, and she fell dangerously ill, adding bodily to spiritual afflictions. It was anguish to those whose duty it was to sit by her bedside at her home. One day when Erma was resting a little more quietly than usual, those in attendance upon her handed her a sealed letter, the envelope being one of mourning. Erma looked at the letter fearfully, and turned her eyes, now full of tears, up to God, as if in reproach of the way he was allowing the millstones to grind her to powder. Erma was trembling as she tore open the letter and sought first of all for the signature. The letter was from Margaret Marston. It read thus:

"My Dear Erma:

"Our family physician came to see me this morning, and he tells me that I am a ruined girl. I know only too well that all he says is true. So I am going to New York to do I know not what. I write you this letter to beg you to forgive me for a wrong which I perpetrated against you long since. You will remember that our doctor, who was here to witness my disgrace this morning, had you put out of church because you went to work. I was the one who worked up that sentiment against you and caused your ejection. I, the one who was above work, trying to act like the white society girl, should have been thrown out instead of yourself. It was my idleness, my failure to earn money, my attempt to keep up with the fashions set by the wealthy that has wrought my ruin. Horace Christian, whom we met at Mrs. Turner's fete, won my love. My love of him, coupled with my desire to dress, my poverty, my failure to seek such work as abounded, my idleness and that peculiar influence which a distinguished man of a distinguished race exercises over a poor girl too appreciative of what appears to her a condescension—these things were forces too powerful for me to resist, and so I fell. Erma, never allow Mrs. Turner to bring our girls into such contact again, as a young white man has nothing on earth to deter him from wrecking our homes. There is no penalty for his offense before the law nor in society. No sort of ostracism overtakes him anywhere for taking advantage of the weaknesses of Negro girls. How free the young white man feels under existing social conditions to prey upon our morals! Our families are so filled with contempt over our disgrace that they seek not to avenge our fall. So, I go on my downward journey, and Mr. Christian moves upward to the highest places within the gift of his people. Do what you can, Erma, to see that a similar fate overtakes not another girl. Farewell.

"Margaret."

"Let me up! Let me up!" cried Erma, springing from the couch on which she lay.

Despite the protests and the determined resistance of her attendants, Erma was soon dressed and walking rapidly toward Mrs. Turner's. Her attendants, thinking that the shock had perhaps cured Erma of her troubles, which were more mental than physical, contented themselves with following her at a distance. She entered Mrs. Turner's home, and said, "Mrs. Turner, I trusted your word that you were introducing us to gentlemen. Now behold the work of Horace Christian." She thereupon handed Mrs. Turner the letter, and waited anxiously for her comment.

Mrs. Turner's face flushed with anger as she read of the baseness of Horace Christian. She said, "Erma, I cannot recall Margaret Marston to a pure existence, 'tis true, but I shall see to it that the same punishment is meted to that scoundrel Christian that would befall him if Margaret were my own daughter Franzetta. The honor of my home is involved, and be assured that we have come upon one white man, the despoiler of a Negro home, that shall not escape unpunished. Trust that to me. Ah, Erma! I fear that the social factor must be ever missing in the solution of your race problem. Wherever and whenever, in other countries, race problems have arisen (and there have been many such to arise), the softening influences of the marriage tie and social intermingling have acted upon the icebergs of race prejudice like a southern sun. But my efforts prove that this factor must ever be missing. It is sad, sad, sad, but it is inevitable. The marriage tie we do not want. All social functions gravitate in that direction, we see; the two cannot be disassociated. As we do not desire the one, we must not tolerate the other, I find at so sad a cost. I wash my hands of the attempt. God knows that my heart was true. But, Christian! Christian! Tremble, wretch, wherever you are! Stay, Erma, I wish to call up Mr. Lanier." She went to the telephone and called up Mr. Lanier, urging him to come to her house at once. He came, and Erma retired to another room while they talked. They were thus engaged for about three hours. Finally, they called in Erma. There was a happy, relieved look on Mrs. Turner's face, and a grave one on Lanier's.

Mr. Lanier said, "Miss Wysong, Mrs. Turner has told me all. By the heart of my sainted mother, and upon the honor of my virgin sister, I swear to you that Margaret Marston shall be avenged. Again, let me say that, to my mind, your brother is entitled to mercy, and he shall not hang."

Erma sprang to Mr. Lanier's side, grasped him by the arm and looked searchingly into his face, but he said no more. Bidding the two adieu, he left, haunted by Erma's beautiful face, where all the sorrow of the world seemed to have taken up its abode.