But she ought.  And, quick, another little thought sprang up in the deeper recesses of her mind and took its place beside the other.  It was right that she should be true.  She ought to do the right.  Argument, the pleas of weakness, the demands of expediency, the plausibility of compromise were all of no avail.  The idea “I ought” persisted and persisted and persisted.  She could and she ought.  There was no excuse for her, and no sooner had she thrust aside the shifty mass of sophistries under which she had striven to conceal them, no sooner had she let in the light, than these two conceptions of Duty and Will began suddenly to grow.

But what was she to gain?  What would be the result of such a course as her conscience demanded she should adopt?  It was inevitable that she would be misunderstood, cruelly misjudged.  What action would her confession entail?  She could not say.  But results did not matter; what she was to gain or lose did not matter.  Around her and before her all was dark and vague and terrible.  If she was to escape there was but one thing to do.  Suddenly her own words came back to her: 

“All we can do is to hold to what we know is right, and trust that everything will come well in the end.”

She knew what was right, and she had the strength to hold to it.  Then all at once there came to Lloyd a grand, breathless sense of uplifting, almost a transfiguration.  She felt herself carried high above the sphere of little things, the region of petty considerations What did she care for consequences, what mattered to her the unjust condemnation of her world, if only she remained true to herself, if only she did right?  What did she care for what she gained?  It was no longer a question of gain or loss—­it was a question of being true and strong and brave.  The conflict of that day at Medford between the man’s power and the woman’s resistance had been cruel, the crisis had been intense, and though she had been conquered then, had it, after all, been beyond recall?  No, she was not conquered.  No, she was not subdued.  Her will had not been broken, her courage had not been daunted, her strength had not been weakened.  Here was the greater fight, here was the higher test.  Here was the ultimate, supreme crisis of all, and here, at last, come what might, she would not, would not, would not fail.

As soon as Lloyd reached this conclusion she sat about carrying her resolution into effect.

“If I don’t do it now while I’m strong,” she told herself, “if I wait, I never will do it.”

Perhaps there was yet a touch of the hysterical in her actions even then.  The jangled feminine nerves were yet vibrating far above their normal pitch; she was overwrought and oversensitive, for just as a fanatic rushes eagerly upon the fire and the steel, preferring the more exquisite torture, so Lloyd sought out the more painful situation, the more trying ordeal, the line of action that called for the greatest fortitude, the most unflinching courage.