“What am I tied to?” Dahlia struggled feebly as against a weight of chains.  “Oh! what am I tied to?  It’s on me, tight like teeth.  I can’t escape.  I can’t breathe for it.  I was like a stone when he asked me—­ marry him!—­loved me!  Some one preached—­my duty!  I am lost, I am lost!  Why? you girl!—­why?—­What did you do?  Why did you take my hand when I was asleep and hurry me so fast?  What have I done to you?  Why did you push me along?—­I couldn’t see where.  I heard the Church babble.  For you—­inhuman! inhuman!  What have I done to you?  What have you to do with punishing sin?  It’s not sin.  Let me be sinful, then.  I am.  I am sinful.  Hear me.  I love him; I love my lover, and,” she screamed out, “he loves me!”

Rhoda now thought her mad.

She looked once at the rigid figure of her transformed sister, and sitting down, covered her eyes and wept.

To Dahlia, the tears were at first an acrid joy; but being weak, she fell to the bed, and leaned against it, forgetting her frenzy for a time.

“You deceived me,” she murmured; and again, “You deceived me.”  Rhoda did not answer.  In trying to understand why her sister should imagine it, she began to know that she had in truth deceived Dahlia.  The temptation to drive a frail human creature to do the thing which was right, had led her to speak falsely for a good purpose.  Was it not righteously executed?  Away from the tragic figure in the room, she might have thought so, but the horror in the eyes and voice of this awakened Sacrifice, struck away the support of theoretic justification.  Great pity for the poor enmeshed life, helpless there, and in a woman’s worst peril,—­looking either to madness, or to death, for an escape—­drowned her reason in a heavy cloud of tears.  Long on toward the stroke of the hour, Dahlia heard her weep, and she murmured on, “You deceived me;” but it was no more to reproach; rather, it was an exculpation of her reproaches.  “You did deceive me, Rhoda.”  Rhoda half lifted her head; the slight tone of a change to tenderness swelled the gulfs of pity, and she wept aloud.  Dahlia untwisted her feet, and staggered up to her, fell upon her shoulder, and called her, “My love!—­good sister!” For a great mute space they clung together.  Their lips met and they kissed convulsively.  But when Dahlia had close view of Rhoda’s face, she drew back, saying in an under-breath,—­

“Don’t cry.  I see my misery when you cry.”

Rhoda promised that she would check her tears, and they sat quietly, side by side, hand in hand.  Mrs. Sumfit, outside, had to be dismissed twice with her fresh brews of supplicating tea and toast, and the cakes which, when eaten warm with good country butter and a sprinkle of salt, reanimate (as she did her utmost to assure the sisters through the closed door) humanity’s distressed spirit.  At times their hands interchanged a fervent pressure, their eyes were drawn to an equal gaze.