boy with laughing nods and waving of hands, which the girl imitated.  Emilia’s feeling of security went with them.  She at once feigned a destination in the distance, and set forward to reach it, but the continued exposure of this delusion made it difficult to renew.  She fell to counting the hours that were to elapse before she would meet those children, saying to herself, that whatever she did she must keep her engagement to be at the appointed steps.  This restriction set her darkly fancying that she wished for her end.

Remembering those men who had looked at her admiringly, “Am I worth looking at?” she said; and it gave her some pleasure to think that she had it still in her power to destroy a thing of value.  She was savagely ashamed of going to death empty-handed.  By-and-by, great fatigue stiffened her limbs, and she sat down from pure want of rest.  The luxury of rest and soothing languor kept hard thoughts away.  She felt as if floating, for a space.  The fear of the streets left her.  But when necessity for rest had gone, she clung to the luxury still, and sitting bent forward, with her hands about her knees, she began to brood over tumbled images of a wrong done to her.  She had two distinct visions of herself, constantly alternating and acting like the temptation of two devils.  One represented her despicable in feature, and bade her die; the other showed a fair face, feeling which to be her own, Emilia had fits of intolerable rage.  This vision prevailed; and this wicked side of her humanity saved her.  Active despair is a passion that must be superseded by a passion.  Passive despair comes later; it has nothing to do with mental action, and is mainly a corruption or degradation of our blood.  The rage in Emilia was blind at first, but it rose like a hawk, and singled its enemy.  She fixed her mind to conceive the foolishness of putting out a face that her rival might envy, and of destroying anything that had value.  The flattery of beauty came on her like a warm garment.  When she opened her eyes, seeing what she was and where, she almost smiled at the silly picture that had given her comfort.  Those men had looked on her admiringly, it was true, but would Wilfrid have ceased to love her if she had been beautiful?  An extraordinary intuition of Wilfrid’s sentiment tormented her now.  She saw herself in the light that he would have seen her by, till she stood with the sensations of an exposed criminal in the dark length of the street, and hurried down it, back, as well as she could find her way, to the friendly policeman.

Her question on reaching him, “Are you married?” was prodigiously astonishing, and he administered the rebuff of an affirmative with severity.  “Then,” said Emilia, “when you go home, let me go with you to your wife.  Perhaps she will consent to take care of me for this night.”  The policeman coughed mildly and replied, “It’s plain you know nothing of women—­begging your pardon, miss,—­for I can see you’re