now the end had come. The cup from which she would have drunk had been struck from her lips. It lay shattered at her feet, the red wine spilled and lost. So she must take herself away, out of his life. Not that she loved him less, but rather more; and so, loving him more, she was ready, for his sake, to sacrifice herself in order that reproach might never again fall upon him.
Through half the night, toiling and tempest-driven, she prepared for her departure. But when Monday came the desire to linger for yet another day overpowered her will, and she yielded. She ate little, slept little, talked little, but moved unceasingly about her narrow rooms. To the queries and protests and misgivings of her querulous old mother she turned, for the most part, a deaf ear. At dusk, on Monday evening, as if through some sudden impulse, she put on her hat and coat.
"Where you goin'?" inquired the old woman.
"I don't know, mother."
"How long you goin' to be gone?"
"A few minutes maybe; maybe forever."
"You talk queer; you act queer. I don't want you to go out."
"No harm will come to me, mother."
"I don't know about that. You might meet Steve."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"And if you meet him he might kill ye."
"Mother, you're crazy."
She bent over and kissed the wrinkled old face, unbolted the door, and went out into the night. The full moon was rising. Houses where poverty dwelt and desolation reigned were gilded on the east by the softest and most beautiful of all lights that ever rest on the dwelling-places of men. Westerly the shadows were deep and forbidding. Cloaked and veiled, the woman moved alone along the deserted street. Near the foot of the hill she reached the lane that led to the
