not to blame. It runs far,
doesn't it?--far and long."

"As you grow older, Don," said she, "you will find it doesn't so much
matter whether or not you are happy."

He shook his head. "I'm done. It's over. There's nothing ahead for me. I
never had a chance. Mother, you and Miss Julia made a bad mistake."

It seemed that she scarcely heard him, or as though his words, brutal,
cruel though they were, no longer impinged upon her consciousness. She
spoke faintly, as though almost breathless, yet addressed herself to
him.

"Why, Don, it was here in this very room ... and you lay in my arms and
looked up at me and laughed. You were so sweet.... But what shall I do?
I love you, and I want you to love me, and you can't. What have I done
to you? Oh, wasn't the world cruel enough to me, Don? Oh, yes, yes, it
runs far--far and long, a woman's sin! You are my sin. And oh! I love
you, and I will not repent! God do so to me--I'll not repent!"

He looked at her, still frowning, but with tenderness under the pain of
his own brow. At last he flung himself on his knees before her and
dropped his head into her lap.

He felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter--hands that
lay side by side, hands long and shapely once, but bruised and worn now
with labor could he but have seen them--Aurora's hands--he could not
have helped but realize her long years of toil. He heard her faint,
steady sobbing now.

After a time she bent lower above his head as he knelt there, silent and
motionless. Slowly her hand began once more to stroke his hair.

CHAPTER VI

THE DIVIDING LINE

The commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the
little room. Aurora Lane arose and passed into the adjoining room to
answer it. Her son regarded her with lackluster eyes when she returned.

"It was Miss Julia," said she, "at the library. She wanted to know if
you were here. She says we must be sure to come out tonight."

"Come out--to what?"

"It's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. She is
very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. Everybody will be
there. You see, Don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain
us. Why, if I could see a real theater once--I don't know how happy I
would be. We've had movies, and now and then a lecture--and Miss Julia."

"I don't want to go, mother."

"Neither do I, Don; so I'm going."

"Why should we go? It's nothing to us."

"It's everythi