the skeleton leaps from the cupboard of my memory； the icy hand
which lies ever near my soul grips it suddenly with a chill
shudder。 Not for nothing was that wretched woman's life interwoven
with my own； if only for an hour； not for nothing did my spirit
harbor a conflict and an agony； which； thank God； are far from its
own story。 Though Margaret Mervyn's dagger failed to pierce my
flesh； the wound in my soul may never wholly be healed。 I know
that that is so； and yet as I turn to start through the sunshine to
the cedar shade and its laughing occupants； I whisper to myself
with fervent conviction； 〃It was worth it。〃
End