She stood and gazed at them, recognizing by degrees faces that she knew, and seeing in all that look of grief and sympathy which makes all human souls brothers.  Impossible was not a word that had been often said to be in her life; and to come out of a world in which everything could be changed, everything communicated in the twinkling of an eye, and find a dead blank before her and around her, through which not a word could go, was more terrible than can be said in words.  She looked piteously upon them, with that anguish of helplessness which goes to every heart, and cried, “What is impossible?  To send a word—­only a word—­to set right what is wrong?  Oh, I understand,” she said, lifting up her hands.  “I understand that to send messages of comfort must not be; that the people who love you must bear it, as we all have done in our time, and trust to God for consolation.  But I have done a wrong!  Oh, listen, listen to me, my friends.  I have left a child, a young creature, unprovided for—­without any one to help her.  And must that be?  Must she bear it, and I bear it, forever, and no means, no way of setting it right?  Listen to me!  I was there last night,—­in the middle of the night I was still there,—­and here this morning.  So it must be easy to come—­only a short way; and two words would be enough,—­only two words!”

They gathered closer and closer round her, full of compassion.  “It is easy to come,” they said, “but not to go.”

And one added, “It will not be forever; comfort yourself.  When she comes here, or to a better place, that will seem to you only as a day.

“But to her,” cried Lady Mary,—­“to her it will be long years—­it will be trouble and sorrow; and she will think I took no thought for her; and she will be right,” the penitent said with a great and bitter cry.

It was so terrible that they were all silent, and said not a word,—­except the man who had loved her, who put his hand upon her arm, and said, “We are here for that; this is the fire that purges us,—­to see at last what we have done, and the true aspect of it, and to know the cruel wrong, yet never be able to make amends.”

She remembered then that this was a man who had neglected all lawful affections, and broken the hearts of those who trusted him for her sake; and for a moment she forgot her own burden in sorrow for his.

It was now that he who had called himself one of the officers came forward again; for the little crowd had gathered round her so closely that he had been shut out.  He said, “No one can carry your message for you; that is not permitted.  But there is still a possibility.  You may have permission to go yourself.  Such things have been done, though they have not often been successful.  But if you will—­”

She shivered when she heard him; and it became apparent to her why no one could be found to go,—­for all her nature revolted from that step, which it was evident must be the most terrible which could be thought of.  She looked at him with troubled, beseeching eyes, and the rest all looked at her, pitying and trying to soothe her.