Jarvis did not leave a will. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said.
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