When
the last echo had lost itself in the thin mountain air, she went into the
house.
Standing before the small mirror that served--in the rude, almost
camp-like furnishings of the house--for both herself and Sibyl, she
studied the face reflected there--turning her head slowly, as if comparing
the beautiful unmarked side with the other that was so hideously
disfigured. For some time she stood there, unflinchingly giving herself to
the torture of this contemplation of her ruined loveliness; drinking to
its bitter dregs the sorrowful cup of her secret memories; until, as
though she could bear no more, she drew back--her eyes wide with pain and
horror, her marred features twisted grotesquely in an agony of mental
suffering. With a pitiful moan she sank upon her knees in prayer.
In the earnestness of her spirit--out of the deep devotion of her love--as
she prayed God for wisdom to guide the girl entrusted to her care, she
spoke aloud. "Let me not rob her, dear Christ, of love; but help me to
help her love aright. Help me, that in my fear for her I do not turn her
heart against her mate when he shall come. Help me, that I do not so fill
her pure mind with doubt and distrust of all men that she will look for
evil, only.
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