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It is not!"
"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze
became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it
was not of death that you were afraid."
She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:
"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to
blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder
now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which
. . . "
She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with
feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment
the very picture of remorse and shame.
"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely
you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I
understand."
She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was
a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white
hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers,
talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now .


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