I shivered in spite of my own "emancipated" cast of mind.
"There is no Mabel," were the words with which my sister sent another
shower of ice down my spine. "He has killed her in his lake of fire and
brimstone."
I stared at her blankly, as in a nightmare where nothing true or
possible ever happened.
"He killed her in his lake of fire and brimstone," she repeated more
faintly.
A desperate effort was in me to say the strong, sensible thing which
should destroy the oppressive horror that grew so stiflingly about us
both, but again the mirror drew the attempted smile into the merest
grin, betraying the distortion that was everywhere in the place.
"You mean," I stammered beneath my breath, "that her faith has gone, but
that the terror has remained?" I asked it, dully groping. I moved out of
the line of the reflection in the glass.
She bowed her head as though beneath a weight; her skin was the pallor
of grey ashes.
"You mean," I said louder, "that she has lost her--mind?"
"She is terror incarnate," was the whispered answer. "Mabel has lost her
soul. Her soul is--there!" She pointed horribly below. "She is seeking
it ...?"
The word "soul" stung me into something of my normal self again.
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