Savants tell us, that ages ago, in the dim dawn, primeval rain drops made their pattering print, and left it to harden on the stone pages, awaiting decipherment by human eyes and human brains, not yet

“Born of the brainless Nature, Who knew not that which she bore.”

Is there an analogous iron chain linking the merest trifles, the frivolous accidents, the apparently worthless coincidences that swell the sum of what we are pleased to call the nobly independent life of the “free-agent” Man?  In the matrix of time, do human tears and human blood-drops leave their record, to be conned when Nemesis holds her last assize?

As the handkerchief swayed in the lawyer’s grasp, Beryl saw the red “B.  B.” like a bloody brand.  At that instant she felt that the death clutch fastened upon her throat; that fate had cast her adrift, on the black waves of despair.  In her reeling brain kaleidoscopic images danced; her father’s face, the lateen sail of fishing boats rocking on blue billows, white oxen browsing amid purple iris clusters; she heard her mother’s voice, her brother’s gay laugh; she smelled the prussic acid fragrance of the vivid oleanders, then over all, like tongues of devouring flames, flickered “Ricordo.”  “B.  B.”

In the frenzy of her desperation she sprang forward, seized the arms that held up the fatal handkerchief, and shook the man, as if he had been an infant.  Her eyes full of horror, were fixed on the scrap of linen, and a frantic cry rang from her lips.

“Father!  Father!  There is no hereafter for you and me!  Prayer is but the mockery of fools!  There is no heaven for the pure, because there is no God!  No God!—­to hear, to save the innocent who trusted in Him.  Oh—­no God!”

Mr. Dunbar dropped the handkerchief, and as the irresistible conviction of her guilt rolled back, crushing the hope he had cherished a moment before, a spasm of pain seized his heart, and with a groan that would not be repressed, he covered his eyes to shut out the vision of the despairing woman, whose doom seemed sealed.  Her right hand which unconsciously clutched his left shoulder, shivered like an aspen, and he knew that for the moment she was entirely oblivious of his presence; blind to everything but the assurance of her ruin.

After all, he had made no mistake; his keen insight was well nigh infallible; but his triumph was costly.  The luscious fruit of professional success left an acrid flavor; the pungent dead sea ashes sifted freely.  He set his heel on the embroidered butterfly, and in his heart cursed the hour he had first seen it.  His coveted bread was petrifying between his teeth.

The grasp on his shoulder relaxed, the hand fell heavily.  When he looked in the face of his victim, he caught his breath at the strange, inexplicable change a few minutes had wrought.  Protest and resistance had come to an end.  Surrender was printed on every feature.  The wild fury of the passionate struggle that convulsed her, had spent itself; and as after a violent wintry tempest the gale subsides, and the snow compassionately shrouds the scene, burning the dead sparrows, the bruised flowers, so submission laid her cold touch on this quivering face, and veiled and froze it.