sight on the threshold of black night, their souls may compare with yonder shining circle on the ceiling, which, as the light below gasps for air, contracts, and extends but to mingle with the darkness.  They would be nobler, better, boundlessly good to all;—­to those who have injured them to those whom they have injured.  Alas! for any definite deed the limit of their circle is immoveable, and they must act within it.  The trick they have played themselves imprisons them.  Beyond it, they cease to be.

Lying in this utter stillness, Juliana thought of Rose; of her beloved by Evan.  The fever that had left her blood, had left it stagnant, and her thoughts were quite emotionless.  She looked faintly on a far picture.  She saw Rose blooming with pleasures in Elburne House, sliding as a boat borne by the river’s tide to sea, away from her living joy.  The breast of Rose was lucid to her, and in that hour of insight she had clear knowledge of her cousin’s heart; how it scoffed at its base love, and unwittingly betrayed the power on her still, by clinging to the world and what it would give her to fill the void; how externally the lake was untroubled, and a mirror to the passing day; and how within there pressed a flood against an iron dam.  Evan, too, she saw.  The Countess was right in her judgement of Juliana’s love.  Juliana looked very little to his qualities.  She loved him when she thought him guilty, which made her conceive that her love was of a diviner cast than Rose was capable of.  Guilt did not spoil his beauty to her; his gentleness and glowing manhood were unchanged; and when she knew him as he was, the revelation of his high nature simply confirmed her impression of his physical perfections.  She had done him a wrong; at her death news would come to him, and it might be that he would bless her name.  Because she sighed no longer for those dear lips and strong arms to close about her tremulous frame, it seemed to her that she had quite surrendered him.  Generous to Evan, she would be just to Rose.  Beneath her pillow she found pencil and paper, and with difficulty, scarce seeing her letters in the brown light, she began to trace lines of farewell to Rose.  Her conscience dictated to her thus, ’Tell Rose that she was too ready to accept his guilt; and that in this as in all things, she acted with the precipitation of her character.  Tell her that you always trusted, and that now you know him innocent.  Give her the proofs you have.  Show that he did it to shield his intriguing sister.  Tell her that you write this only to make her just to him.  End with a prayer that Rose may be happy.’