Upon the pavement she was hustled by the mob, the surging masses roared her name and accompanied it with every species of insulting epithet; they thronged after the carriage, hooting, jeering, cursing, and even assailing the vehicle with missiles.  A stone crushed through a blind, wounding Laura’s forehead, and so stunning her that she hardly knew what further transpired during her flight.

It was long before her faculties were wholly restored, and then she found herself lying on the floor by a sofa in her own sitting-room, and alone.  So she supposed she must have sat down upon the sofa and afterward fallen.  She raised herself up, with difficulty, for the air was chilly and her limbs were stiff.  She turned up the gas and sought the glass.  She hardly knew herself, so worn and old she looked, and so marred with blood were her features.  The night was far spent, and a dead stillness reigned.  She sat down by her table, leaned her elbows upon it and put her face in her hands.

Her thoughts wandered back over her old life again and her tears flowed unrestrained.  Her pride was humbled, her spirit was broken.  Her memory found but one resting place; it lingered about her young girlhood with a caressing regret; it dwelt upon it as the one brief interval of her life that bore no curse.  She saw herself again in the budding grace of her twelve years, decked in her dainty pride of ribbons, consorting with the bees and the butterflies, believing in fairies, holding confidential converse with the flowers, busying herself all day long with airy trifles that were as weighty to her as the affairs that tax the brains of diplomats and emperors.  She was without sin, then, and unacquainted with grief; the world was full of sunshine and her heart was full of music.  From that—­to this!

“If I could only die!” she said.  “If I could only go back, and be as I was then, for one hour—­and hold my father’s hand in mine again, and see all the household about me, as in that old innocent time—­and then die!  My God, I am humbled, my pride is all gone, my stubborn heart repents —­have pity!”

When the spring morning dawned, the form still sat there, the elbows resting upon the table and the face upon the hands.  All day long the figure sat there, the sunshine enriching its costly raiment and flashing from its jewels; twilight came, and presently the stars, but still the figure remained; the moon found it there still, and framed the picture with the shadow of the window sash, and flooded, it with mellow light; by and by the darkness swallowed it up, and later the gray dawn revealed it again; the new day grew toward its prime, and still the forlorn presence was undisturbed.

But now the keepers of the house had become uneasy; their periodical knockings still finding no response, they burst open the door.

The jury of inquest found that death had resulted from heart disease, and was instant and painless.  That was all.  Merely heart disease.