so loved her art That she really believed she was living the part. The suffering martyr who makes no complaint Was a role more important, by far, than the saint Or reformer. As first leading lady in grief, Her pride in herself found a certain relief. 

 The ardent and love-selfish husband had not Been so dear to her heart, or so close to her thought, As this weak, reckless sinner, who woke in her soul Its dominant wish—to reform and control. 

 (How often, alas, the reformers of earth, If they studied their purpose, would find it had birth In this thirst to control; in the poor human passion The minds and the manners of others to fashion! 

 We sigh o'er the heathen, we weep o'er his woes, While forcing him into our creeds and our clothes. If he adds our diseases and vices as well, Still, at least we have guided him into our hell And away from his own heathen hades. The pleasure Derived from that thought but reformers can measure.) 

 The thing Mabel Montrose loved best on this earth Was a sinner, and Roger but doubled his worth In her eyes when he wrote her that letter. And still When the last message came from Maurice Somerville And the bald, ugly facts, unsuspected, unguessed, Lay before her, the woman awoke in her breast, And the patient reformer gave way to the wife, Who was torn with resentment and jealousy's strife. Ah, jealousy! vain is the effort to prove Your right in the world as the offspring of love; For oftener far, you are spawned by a heart Where Cupid has never implanted a dart. Love knows you, indeed, for you serve in his train, But crowned like a monarch you royally reign Over souls wherein love is a stranger. 

 No thought Came to Mabel Montrose that her own life was not Free from blame.  (How few women, indeed, think of this When they grieve o'er the ruin of marital bliss!) She was shocked and indignant.  Pain gave her a new Role to play without study; she missed in her cue And played badly at first, was resentful and cried Against Fate for the blow it had dealt to her pride (Though she called it her love), and declared her life blighted. It is one thing, of course, for a wife to be slighted For the average folly the world calls a sin, Such as races, clubs, games; when a woman steps in The matter assumes a new color, and Mabel, Who dearly loved sinners, at first seemed unable To pardon, or ask God to pardon, the crime Of her husband; an angry disgust for a time Drove all charity out of her heart. For a thief, For a forger, a murderer, even, her grief Had been mingled with pity and pardon; 

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