"
The girl as she stood there, all pale, yet glowing with the white light
of her pain, was beautiful, noble, compelling. Mrs. Falchion now rose
also. She was altogether in the sunlight now. From the piano in the next
room came a quick change of accompaniment, and a voice was heard singing,
as if to the singer's self, 'Il balen del suo sorris'. It is hard to tell
how far such little incidents affected her in what she did that
afternoon; but they had their influence. She said: "You are
altruistic--or are you selfish, or both? . . . And should the woman--if
it were a woman--yield, and spare the man, what would you do?"
"I would say that she had been merciful and kind, and that one in this
world would pray for her when she needed prayers most."
"You mean when she was old,"--Mrs. Falchion shrank a little at the sound
of her own words. Now her careless abandon was gone; she seemed to be
following her emotions. "When she was old," she continued, "and came to
die? It is horrible to grow old, except one has been a saint--and a
mother. . . . And even then--have you ever seen them, the women of that
Egypt of which we spoke--powdered, smirking over their champagne, because
they feel for an instant a false pulse of their past?--See how eloquent
your mountains make me!--I think that would make one hard and cruel; and
one would need the prayers of a churchful of good women, even as good--as
you.
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