“'You have not asked me to forgive you,' I said.
“'No,' she replied. 'For what is forgiveness? I do not know exactly what that word means. It is supposed to wipe out something that has happened, is it not?—to make things the same as they were before! But it does not do that. That which has happened, has happened; and you and I know it.'
“'You had better live,' I said; 'I no longer consider you worthless. I feel that you are worthy of my anger now.'
“Her face cleared almost into something like joy.
“'I have told the truth, and I raise myself from the depths of your scorn to the place where you can feel a hot rage against me?' she asked.
“'Yes,' I said. And the light on her face was like that of which some women are capable when they are told that they are beloved.
“'And if I die?' she asked.
“'Who knows but that you might climb by it?' I said. 'Who knows but what your death might turn my anger to love again?' And with that I turned and left her there.
“That night I sat all night in my study, and in the morning they brought me the news that she was dead. She must have used some poison. What, I do not know; and the physicians called it heart-failure. But what is the matter, Doctor?”
“Nothing, nothing!” said Dr. Beaulieu. And he motioned for the narrator to proceed. But there were beads of perspiration upon the healer's forehead, and a pallor overspread his face.