good as spoiled now," she thought; "they're no longer fit for
anybody but me." She paused, and abruptly took up the third and
last photograph--the likeness of Herbert Linley.

Was it an offense, now, even to look at his portrait? No idea of
leaving it behind her was in her mind. Her resolution vibrated
between two miseries--the misery of preserving her keep-sake
after she had parted from him forever, and the misery of
destroying it. Resigned to one more sacrifice, she took the card
in both hands to tear it up. It would have been scattered in
pieces on the floor, but for the chance which had turned the
portrait side of the card toward her instead of the back. Her
longing eyes stole a last look at him--a frenzy seized her--she
pressed her lips to the photograph in a passion of hopeless love.
"What does it matter?" she asked herself. "I'm nothing but the
ignorant object of his kindness--the poor fool who could see no
difference between gratitude and love. Where is the harm of
having him with me when I am starving in the streets, or dying in
the workhouse?" The fervid spirit in her that had never known a
mother's loving discipline, never thrilled to the sympathy of a
sister-friend, rose in revolt against the evil destiny which had
imbittered her life. Her eyes still rested on the photograph.
"Come to my heart, my only friend, and kill me!" As those wild
words escaped her, she thrust the card furiously into the bosom
of her dress--and threw herself on the floor. There was something
in the mad self-abandonment of that action which mocked the
innocent despair of her childhood, on the day when her mother
left her at the cruel mercy of her aunt.

That night was a night of torment in secret to another person at