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ARIADNE. 87went out and sat clown on the stair outside, andwaitedin the dark.Other womenone might have striven to consolewith tidings of the peace that lies in riches;butherIdared not. When a greatheart is breakingbecause all life and all eternity are ruined, whocan talk of the coarse foolish sweetness that liesfor fools and roguesingold? Icould not at theleast. Perhaps, because stitching there wherethe streetsmeet, and the fountain fallsin the openan by the river, gold has always seemed so littleto me: so great,indeed, as a tempter,but as acomforter — how poor.Isat still in the dark, andIdid not know howthe hours went;the lamp was burning below inthe wall of the twisting staircase, and there wasthe hum of the distant voices on the bridge, andthe sound of the waterwashingitself away underthe bridge arches, and now and then the beat ofoars.Ihad clone the best thatIcould, butitweighed on me as thoughIhad done somecrime.Perhaps she woulcl reproach me for havingbrought her back to consciousness,as the suicide,