"
The little shining crystal lay alone in the soft pink palm. Rosemary
dwelt upon it, faintly smiling.
"She read far into the night," she said, speaking almost dreamily, as if
recounting a vision conjured up in the glittering surface of the stone.
"It was a free night for her. And she read on and on and on. The book
gripped her; it fascinated her. It was--a great book. It was
called--_Remembrance_." She drew a quick breath and went on somewhat
hurriedly. "It moved her in a fashion that perhaps you would hardly
realize. I have read it, and I--understand. The writing was wonderful.
It brought home to her--vividly, oh, vividly--how the past may be atoned
for, but never, never effaced. It hurt her--oh, it hurt her. But it did
her good. It showed her how she was on the verge of taking a wrong
turning, of perhaps--no, almost certainly--dragging down the man who
loved her. She saw suddenly the wickedness of marrying him just to
escape her own prison. She understood clearly that only love could have
justified her--no other motive than that. She saw the evil of fastening
her past to an honourable man whose good name and family demanded of him
something better.
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