n　had　once　told　her；　it　was　herselfher　personality　that　was　her　greatest　asset。　　Was　it　to　be　utterly　wasted？　　There　were　hundreds　of　impersonal；　sexless　women；　equipped　for　nothing　else；　with　pens　as　keen　if　not　keener　than　hers。　　That　was　not　the　talent　with　which　she　had　been　entrustedfor　which　she　would　have　to　account。　　It　was　her　beauty；　her　power　to　charm；　to　draw　after　her…　…to　compel　by　the　mere　exercise　of　her　will。　　Hitherto　Beauty　had　been　content　to　barter　itself　for　mere　coin　of　the　realmfor　ease　and　luxury　and　pleasure。　　She　only　asked　to　be　allowed　to　spend　it　in　service。　　As　his　wife；　she　could　use　it　to　fine　ends。　　By　herself　she　was　helpless。　　One　must　take　the　world　as　one　finds　it。　It　gives　the　unmated　woman　no　opportunity　to　employ　the　special　gifts　with　which　God　has　endowed　herexcept　for　evil。　　As　the　wife　of　a　rising　statesman；　she　could　be　a　force　for　progress。　　She　could　become　another　Madame　Roland；　gather　round　her　all　that　was　best　of　English　social　life；　give　back　to　it　its　lost　position　in　the　vanguard　of　thought。
  She　could　strengthen　him；　give　him　courage。　　Without　her；　he　would　always　remain　the　mere　fighter；　doubtful　of　himself。　　The　confidence；　the　inspiration；　necessary　for　leadership；　she　alone　could　bring　to　him。　　Each　by　themselves　was　incomplete。　　Together；　they　would　be　the　whole。　　They　would　build　the　city　of　their　dreams。
  She　seemed　to　have　become　a　wandering　spirit　rather　than　a　living　being。　　She　had　no　sense　of　time　or　place。　　Once　she　had　started；　hearing　herself　laugh。　　She　was　seated　at　a　table；　and　was　talking。　And　then　she　had　passed　back　into　forgetfulness。　　Now；　from　somewhere；　she　was　gazing　downward。　　Roofs；　domes　and　towers　lay　stretched　before　her；　emerging　from　a　sea　of　shadows。　　She　held　out　her　arms　towards　them　and　the　tears　came　to　her　eyes。　　The　poor　tired　people　were　calling　to　her　to　join　with　him　to　help　them。　Should　she　fail　themturn　deaf　ears　to　the　myriad　because　of　pity　for　one　useless；　feeble　life？
  She　had　been　fashioned　to　be　his　helpmate；　as　surely　as　if　she　had　been　made　of　the　same　bone。　　Nature　was　at　one　with　God。　　Spirit　and　body　both　yearned　for　him。　　It　was　not　positionpower　for　herself　that　she　craved。　　The　marriage　marketif　that　had　been　her　desire：　　it　had　always　been　open　to　her。　　She　had　the　gold　that　buys　these　things。　　Wealth；　ambition：　　they　had　been　offered　to　herspread　out　temptingly　before　her　eyes。　　They　were　always　within　her　means；　if　ever　she　chose　to　purchase　them。　　It　was　this　man　alone　to　whom　she　had　ever　felt　drawnthis　man　of　the　people；　with　that　suggestion　about　him　of　something　primitive；　untamed；　causing　her　always　in　his　presence　that　faint；　compelling　thrill　of　fear；　who　stirred　her　blood　as　none　of　the　polished　men　of　her　own　class　had　ever　done。　　His　kind；　strong；　ugly　face：　　it　moved　beside　her：　　its　fearless；　tender　eyes　now　pleading；　now　commanding。
  He　needed　her。　　She　heard　his　passionate；　low　voice；　as　she　had　heard　it　in　the　little　garden　above　Meudon：　　〃Because　you　won't　be　there；　and　without　you　I　can　do　nothing。〃　　What　right　had　this　poor；　worn…out　shadow　to　stand　between　them；　to　the　end？　　Had　love　and　life　no　claims；　but　only　weakness？　　She　had　taken　all；　had　given　nothing。　　It　was　but　reparation　she　was　making。　　Why　stop　her？
  She　was　alone　in　a　maze　of　narrow；　silent　streets　that　ended　always　in　a　high　blank　wall。　　It　seemed　impossible　to　get　away　from　this　blank　wall。　　Whatever　way　she　turned　she　was　always　coming　back　to　it。
  What　was　she　to　do？　　Drag　the　woman　back　to　life　against　her　will　lead　her　back　to　him　to　be　a　chain　about　his　feet　until　the　end？　Then　leave　him　to　fight　the　battle　alone？
  And　herself？　　All　her　world　had　been　watching　and　would　know。　　She　had　counted　her　chickens　before　they　were　dead。　　She　had　set　her　cap　at　the　man；　reckoning　him　already　widowed；　and　his　wife　had　come　to　life　and　snatched　it　from　her　head。　　She　could　hear　the　laughterthe　half　amused；　half　contemptuous　pity　for　her　〃rotten　bad　luck。〃　　She　would　be　their　standing　jest；　till　she　was　forgotten。
  What　would　life　leave　to　her？　　A　lonely　lodging　and　a　pot　of　ink　that　she　would　come　to　hate　the　smell　of。　　She　could　never　marry。　It　would　be　but　her　body　that　she　could　give　to　any　other　man。　　Not　even　for　the　sake　of　her　dreams　could　she　bring　herself　to　that。　It　might　have　been　possible　before；　but　not　now。　　She　could　have　won　the　victory　over　herself；　but　for　hope；　that　had　kindled　the　smouldering　embers　of　her　passion　into　flame。　　What　cunning　devil　had　flung　open　this　door；　showing　her　all　her　heart's　desire；　merely　that　she　should　be　called　upon　to　slam　it　to　in　her　own　face？
  A　fierce　anger　blazed　up　in　her　brain。　　Why　should　she　listen？　　Why　had　reason　been　given　to　us　if　we　were　not　to　use　itweigh　good　and　evil　in　the　balance　and　decide　for　ourselves　where　lay　the　nobler　gain？　　Were　we　to　be　led　hither　and　thither　like　blind　children？　　What　was　rightwhat　wrong；　but　what　our　own　God…given　judgment　told　us？　　Was　it　wrong　of　the　woman　to　perform　this　act　of　self…renunciation；　yielding　up　all　things　to　love？　　No；　it　was　greatheroic　of　her。　　It　would　be　her　cross　of　victory；　her　crown。
  If　the　gift　were　noble；　so　also　it　could　not　be　ignoble　to　accept　it。
  To　reject　it　would　be　to　dishonour　it。
  She　would　accept　it。　　The　wonder　of　it　should　cast　out　her　doubts　and　fears。　　She　would　seek　to　make　herself　worthy　of　it。　Consecrate　it　with　her　steadfastness；　her　devotion。
  She　thought　it　ended。　　But　yet　she　sat　there　motionless。
  What　was　plucking　at　her　sleevestill　holding　her？
  Unknowing；　she　had　entered　a　small　garden。　　It　formed　a　passage　between　two　streets；　and　was　left　open　day　and　night。　　It　was　but　a　narrow　strip　of　rank　grass　and　withered　shrubs　with　an　asphalte　pathway　widening　to　a　circle　in　the　centre；　where　stood　a　gas　lamp　and　two　seats；　facing　one　another。
  And　suddenly　it　came　to　her　that　this　was　her　Garden　of　Gethsemane；　and　a　dull　laugh　broke　from　her　that　she　could　not　help。　　It　was　such　a　ridiculous　apology　for　Gethsemane。　　There　was　not　a　corner　in　which　one　could　possibly　pray。　　Only　these　two　iron　seats；　one　each　side　of　the　gaunt　gas　lamp　that　glared　down　upon　them。　　Even　the　withered　shrubs　were　fenced　off　behind　a　railing。　　A　ragged　figure　sprawled　upon　the　bench　opposite　to　her。　　It　snored　gently；　and　its　breath　came　laden　with　the　odour　of　cheap　whisky。
  But　it　was　her　Gethsemane：　　the　best　that　Fate　had　been　able　to　do　for　her。　　It　was　here　that　her　choice　would　be　made。　　She　felt　that。
  And　there　rose　before　her　the　vision　of　that　other　Garden　of　Gethsemane　with；　below　it；　the　soft　lights　of　the　city　shining　through　the　trees；　and　above；　clear　against　the　star…lit　sky；　the　cold；　dark　cross。
  It　was　only　a　little　cross；　hers；　by　comparison。　　She　could　see　that。　　They　seemed　to　be　standing　side　by　side。　　But　then　she　was　only　a　womanlittle　more　than　a　girl。　　And　her　courage　was　so　small。　　She　thought　He　ought　to　know　that。　　For　her；　it　was　quite　a　big　cross。　　She　wondered　if　He　had　been　listening　to　all　her　arguments。　　There　was　really　a　good　deal　of　sense　in　some　of　them。　Perhaps　He　would　understand。　　Not　all　His　prayer　had　come　down　to　us。　　He；　too；　had　put　up　a　fight　for　life。　　He；　too；　was　young。　For　Him；　also；　life　must　have　seemed　but　just　beginning。　　Perhaps　He；　too；　had　felt　that　His　duty　still　lay　among　the　people　teaching；　guiding；　healing　them。　　To　Him；　too；　life　must　have　been　sweet　with　its　noble　work；　its　loving　comradeship。　　Even　from　Him　the　words　had　to　be　wrung：　　〃Thy　will；　not　Mine；　be　done。〃
  She　whispered　them　at　last。　　Not　bravely；　at　all。　　Feebly；　haltingly；　with　a　little　sob：　　her　forehead　pressed　against　the　cold　iron　seat；　as　if　that　could　help　her。
  She　thought　that　even　then　God　might　reconsider　itsee　her　point　of　view。　　Perhaps　He　would　send　her　a　sign。
  The　ragged　figure　on　the　bench　opposite　opened　its　eyes；　stared　at　her；　then　went　to　sleep　again。　　A　prowling　cat　paused　to　rub　itself　against　her　foot；　but　meeting　no　response；　passed　on。　　Through　an　open　window；　somewhere　near；　filtered　the　sound　of　a　child's　low　whimpering。
  It　was　daylight　when　she　awoke。　　She　was　cold　and　her　limbs　ached。　Slowly　her　senses　came　back　to　her。　　The　seat　opposite　was　vacant。　The　gas　lamp　showed　but　a　faint　blue　point　of　flame。　　Her　dress　was　torn；　her　boots　soiled　and　muddy。　　Strands　of　her　hair　had　escaped　from　underneath　her　hat。
  She　looked　at　her　watch。　　Fortunately　it　was　still　early。　　She　would　be　able　to　let　herself　in　before　anyone　was　up。　　It　was　but　a　little　way。　　She　wondered；　while　rearranging　her　hair；　what　day　it　was。　　She　would　find　out；　when　she　got　home；　from　the　newspaper。
  In　the　street　she　paused　a　moment　and　looked　back　through　the　railings。　　It　seemed　even　still　more　sordid　in　the　daylight：　　the　sooty　grass　and　the　withered　shrubs　and　the　asphalte　pathway　strewn　with　dirty　paper。　　And　again　a　laugh　she　could　not　help　broke　from　her。　　Her　Garden　of　Gethsemane！
  She　sent　a　brief　letter　round　to　Phillips；　and　a　telegram　to　the　nurse；　preparing　them　for　what　she　meant　to　do。　　She　had　just　time　to　pack　a　small　trunk　and　catch　the　morning　train。　　At　Folkestone；　she　drove　first　to　a　house　where　she　herself　had　once　lodged　an