What of those numberless struggling creatures to whom such happy fortune could never come, who, be their aspirations and capabilities what they might, must struggle vainly, agonise, and in the end despair?
She had been lifted out of hell, not risen therefrom by her own strength.

Sometimes it half seemed to her that it would have been the nobler lot to remain as she was, to share the misery of that dread realm of darkness with those poor disinherited ones, to cherish that spirit of noble rebellion, the consciousness of which had been as a pure fire on the altar of her being.

What was to be her future?
Would she insensibly forget her past self, let her strength subside in refinement--it might be, even lose the passion which had made her what she was?
But hope predominated.

Forget! Could she ever forget those faces in the slums on the day when she bade farewell to poverty and all its attendant wretchedness?
Litany Lane and Elm Court were names which already symbolised a purpose.

If ever she still looked at her grandfather with a remnant of distrust, it was because she thought of him as drawing money from such a source, enjoying his life of ease in disregard of the responsibilities laid upon him.