She may escape destitute gentility; she may pass into the
higher walks of refined society, may be waited upon by many servants,
and be the cynosure of eyes that under other circumstances had never
deigned to favor her with a casual notice. What of that? She may, at
last, recline in an expensive casket, and rich exotics may lie in
splendid profusion about her, there may be tolling of many bells and
sighing of many friends, but after that? Does the grave show any more
respect to these remnants of dainty humanity stowed away in the
stillness of an artistic vault, than to the handful of pauper human
bones that crumble to their final dust under the unmarked, unnoticed
sod?
With such reflections as these, and while my eyes were still fixed
upon the fascinating photograph I fell into a deep sleep.
I dreamed strange things that night. Phantom forms with a dark mystic
beauty about them glided round me. I saw a woman with long raven
tresses and tear-dimmed eyes shrouded in flowing draperies, leaning
over a narrow rustic bridge under which dark and muddy water ran in a
gurgling stream. Her elbow leaned upon the railing, and her pensive
face lay half-buried in one slender hand. She was looking into the
depths below, and a great misery was written upon her handsome
features. I dreamed that I was hurrying by the spot where she was
standing, eager to reach the other side unobserved by her. As I stole
with noiseless tread behind her, I heard her talking to the waters in
a slow and humdrum monotone:
"Even if I did it," she was saying "he wouldn't care now.
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