But while she paused and shook, a light flashed, and her eyes were open and saw--that it was not the lie.
She turned and ran, ran upstairs to her own room, flung herself on her knees beside the bed, dragged a locket from her bosom and fell to kissing George's portrait, passionately crying it for pardon.
She was wicked, base; while he lived she had misprised him; and this was her abiding punishment, that not even repentance could purge her heart of dishonouring thoughts, that her love for him now could never be stainless though washed with daily tears.

"'_He that is unjust, let him be unjust still_.' _Must_ that be true, Father of all mercies?
I misjudged him, and it is too late for atonement.

But I repent and am afflicted.

Though the dead know nothing--though it can never reach or avail him--give me back the power to be just!" Late that afternoon Honoria passed an hour piously in turning over the dead man's wardrobe, shaking out and brushing the treasured garments and folding them, against moth and dust, in fresh tissue paper.

It was a morbid task, perhaps, but it kept George's image constantly before her, and this was what her remorseful mood demanded.