thoroughly. One after another she discovered his mean dishonesties and deceits, and her soul revolted from him, and because the illusion of him had broken into a thousand vulgar fragments, she turned away with the scorn of a woman who finds her romance has been a trumpery tale. When he left her for other pleasures—Lettie being a baby of three years, while I was five—she rejoiced bitterly. She had heard of him indirectly—and of him nothing good, although he prospered—but he had never come to see her or written to her in all the eighteen years.
In a while my mother came in. She sat down, pleating up the hem of her black apron, and smoothing it out again.
“You know,” she said, “he had a right to the children, and I’ve kept them all the time.”
“He could have come,” said I.
“I set them against him, I have kept them from him, and he wanted them. I ought to be by him now—I ought to have taken you to him long ago.”
“But how could you, when you knew nothing of him?”
“He would have come—he wanted to come—I have felt it for years. But I kept him away. I know I have kept him away. I have felt it, and he has. Poor Frank—he’ll see his mistakes now. He would not have been as cruel as I have been——”
“Nay, mother, it is only the shock that makes you say so.”
“This makes me know. I have felt in myself a long time that he was suffering; I have had the feeling of him in me. I knew, yes, I did know he wanted me, and you, I felt it. I have had the feeling of him
