She stood looking around at the barrenness curiously, trying perhaps to see it with the eyes of a stranger.  “This is my room,” she said, “and the very walls and floor are saturated with my sufferings.”  She went restlessly to the window, and threw open the broken blind.  As the radiance of the afternoon flooded the place with light, I seemed to see it and its wasting occupant, here in this horrible desolation, in the changing seasons, when the window gave on the bitter rigors of blue and white winter mornings, the land choked with snow, on the golden blur of autumn, on the tender mists of April, draping the earth, and forever the cry of the waves on the shore haunting the air.  That there was nothing of the mad woman about her, that she had retained reason in such a place, in such a room, with an eating grief to bear, impressed me as one of the marvels of the brain’s endurance, with which nature sometimes surprises us.  It seemed to me that this might be the hour of partial deliverance to the poor soul who had evidently lived and died so much.

“Why have you stayed here?” I asked.  She had now taken the chair fronting me.  We were stiffly seated as if for a business interview.  I had a desire to take the poor figure in my arms, but I felt as if she were as intangible as a spirit.  When mental pain has devoured the body, as physical pain so often does, there is something thrice as ethereal about the wreck.

“What difference could it make?” she asked in her slightly husky voice, with faint surprise.  “It is only the old love-story of a village girl you will hear.  My mother was different from these people, but I had never known anything beside this life, except books.  Of course you can understand how much else than love the man brought me.  I was quite beautiful then.  Does it not seem strange that it could have been true!  I burst into real blossom for him—­like Aaron’s rod, was it not?  And now you see, I am only the bare rod.”

She dropped her lids and looked down at herself calmly.  The warmth had curled the short hairs into a light halo around her forehead, the little neck was bent, she had folded her hands in her lap.  The piteous child-like chest and limbs revealed by the tight white gown, brought tears to my eyes.  There was something solemn, terrible, in this virginal decay.

“All that I was to be, was forced into growth at once.  He made me a new self; he was in a sense creator, teacher, parent, friend, idol, lover.  He was the world I have not known; he taught me that I could myself write, create.  I was nearer madness in those days than now, for when he threw himself here—­” She rose and pointed to the floor near the table—­“here on these boards at my feet, and begged me to listen to his love, to be his wife—­I, his wife!—­it was as strange, as unreal as a vision.—­I had a month.”  She did not raise her sweet, level voice, but the eyes that she fixed on mine were dilated to blackness, and her face was illumined with