Well, she was as certain as ever. The thought had first come to her in
the mad misery of the outbreak of violence on the last day of the old
year. Then it had gone again, soothed away by the arguments that man was
still liable to relapse. Then once more it had recurred, a cold and
convincing phantom, in the plain daylight revealed by Felsenburgh's
Declaration. It had taken up its abode with her then, yet she controlled
it, hoping against hope that the Declaration would not be carried into
action, occasionally revolting against its horror. Yet it had never been
far away; and finally when the policy sprouted into deliberate law, she
had yielded herself resolutely to its suggestion. That was eight days
ago; and she had not had one moment of faltering since that.
Yet she had ceased to condemn. The logic had silenced her. All that she knew was that she could not bear it; that she had misconceived the New Faith; that for her, whatever it was for others, there was no hope.... She had not even a child of her own.
Those eight days, required by law, had passed very peacefully. She had taken with her enough money to enter one of the private homes furnished with sufficient comfort to save from distractions those who had been accustomed to gentle living: the nurses had been pleasant and sympathetic; she had nothing to complain of.
She had suffered, of course, to some degree from reactions. The second night after her arrival had been terrible, when, as she lay in bed in the hot darkness, her whole sentient life had protested and struggled against the fate her will ordained. It had demanded the familiar things—the
