for
me but Lillian's arms.

The weeks immediately following Dicky's departure are almost a blank
memory to me. I seemed stunned, incapable of action, even of thinking
clearly.

If it had not been for Lillian, I do not know what I should have done.
She cared for me with infinite tenderness and understanding, she
stood between me and the imperative curiosity and bewilderment of
my mother-in-law, and she made all the arrangements necessary for my
taking up my life as a thing apart from my husband.

It seemed almost like an interposition of Providence that two days
after Dicky's bombshell, his mother received a letter from her
daughter Elizabeth asking her to go to Florida for the rest of the
winter. One of the children had been ordered south by the family
physician, and Dicky's sister was to accompany her little daughter,
while the other children remained at home under the care of their
father and his mother. Mother Graham dearly loves to travel, and
I knew from Lillian's reports and the few glimpses I had of my
mother-in-law that she was delighted with the prospect before her.

How Lillian managed to quiet the elder woman's natural worry about
Dicky, her half-formed suspicion that something was wrong, and her
conviction that without her to look after me I should not be able to
get through the winter, I never knew.

I do not remember seeing my mother-in-law but once or twice in the
interval between the receipt of Dicky's letter and her departure. The
memory of her good-by to me, however, is very distinct.

She came into the room, cloaked and hatted, ready for the taxi which
was to take her to the station. Katie was to go into New York with
her, and see her safely on the train. Her face was pale, and I noticed
listlessly that her eyelids were reddened as if she had been weeping.
She bent and kissed me tenderly, and then she put her arms around me,
and held me tightly.

"I don't know what it is all about, dear child," she said. "I hope all
is as it seems outwardly. But remember, Margaret, I am your friend,
whatever happens, and if it will help you any, you may remember that
I, too, have had to walk this same sharp paved way."

Then she went away. I remembered that she had said something of the
kind once before, giving me to understand that Dicky's father had
caused her much unhappiness. Did she believe too, I wondered, that
Dicky was with Grace Draper, that his brief infatuation for the girl
had returned when he h