ABSTRACT
The undisciplined mind of poor Beatrice was as a flower that droops beneath the storm; but, on the first gleam of sunshine, raises again its head, even though the hail-stones and the wind might have broken and tarnished its leaves and its tints. For several days after this conversation Beatrice became peaceful and mild, saying little, and appearing complacent, almost content; she attended mass, told her beads, and talked of going to confession. Beatrice put her hand upon her heart; her eyes were filled with tears; and the whole expression of her face was softened and humanized. Beatrice covered her face with her hands; her struggles were violent; she shrunk from Euthanasia’s consoling embrace; and at length, quite overcome, she sank in convulsions on the pavement of the hall. Euthanasia was meditating on this letter, when Beatrice entered, and sat down beside her.
