“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.

In the middle of the night Dahlia said:  “I found a letter from Edward when I came here.”

“Written—­Oh, base man that he is!” Rhoda could not control the impulse to cry it out.

“Written before,” said Dahlia, divining her at once.  “I read it; did not cry.  I have no tears.  Will you see it?  It is very short-enough; it said enough, and written before—­” She crumpled her fingers in Rhoda’s; Rhoda, to please her, saying “Yes,” she went to the pillow of the bed, and drew the letter from underneath.

“I know every word,” she said; “I should die if I repeated it.  ’My wife before heaven,’ it begins.  So, I was his wife.  I must have broken his heart—­broken my husband’s.”  Dahlia cast a fearful eye about her; her eyelids fluttered as from a savage sudden blow.  Hardening her mouth to utter defiant spite:  “My lover’s,” she cried.  “He is.  If he loves me and I love him, he is my lover, my lover, my lover!  Nothing shall stop me from saying it—­lover! and there is none to claim me but he.  Oh, loathsome!  What a serpent it is I’ve got round me!