Her window looked eastward. The dusky glare of lighted London met
her as her eyes rested on the sky. It seemed to beckon her back
to the horror of the cruel streets--to point her way mockingly to
the bridges over the black river--to lure her to the top of the
parapet, and the dreadful leap into God's arms, or into
annihilation--who knew which?
She turned, shuddering, from the window. "Will it end in that
way," she asked herself, "if the matron says No?"
She began her letter.
"DEAR MADAM--So long a time has passed since you heard from me
that I almost shrink from writing to you. I am afraid you have
already given me up in your own mind as a hard-hearted,
ungrateful woman.
"I have been leading a false life; I have not been fit to write
to you before to-day. Now, when I am doing what I can to atone to
those whom I have injured--now, when I repent with my whole
heart--may I ask leave to return to the friend who has borne with
me and helped me through many miserable years? Oh, madam, do not
cast me off! I have no one to turn to but you.
"Will you let me own everything to you? Will you forgive me when
you know what I have done? Will you take me back into the Refuge,
if you have any employment for me by which I may earn my shelter
and my bread?
"Before the night comes I must leave the house from which I am
now writing.
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