aid much to me."

"Nor did I know you," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "You were a stranger to me
when I saw you now, right here--Don's mother! We were so excited, Don
and I, that I never identified you two, although--yes--I knew--something
about--about----What shall I call you--you see, maybe I'll be your
daughter yet."

"Some call me--Mrs. Lane. Some--Miss Lane. You can't call me 'mother.'
For most part I am the village milliner, my dear--nothing more than
that. I'm nobody. But generally, I'm 'Aurora Lane.' ... Now you know it
all. I'm so sorry for you, my dear girl. You're fine--you're splendid.
You're a good girl; and you're so very beautiful. If only you belonged
with--with him--with me. It's too bad for you."

Anne Oglesby, the more composed of the two, impulsively stroked back the
thick ruff of auburn hair from Aurora's face. "You mustn't bother about
me," she said.

"But I must bother about you! You must give him up. My dear, my dear, it
can't be! I'm just learning now how hard that would be for him because
it's so hard for me."

"He kissed me," said Anne Oglesby simply. "After that it was too late."

"Why, what do you mean, my dear?"

"He didn't have to do anything more after that," said Anne Oglesby
slowly. "He had not had time to say anything before that."

"He should not have kissed you," said Aurora Lane. "But that was his
farewell to you."

"It was not farewell!" said Anne Oglesby. "It was our beginning! I will
_not_ give him up. If he had not kissed me--just when he did--just as he
did--I would not have known! I'm glad!"

Aurora Lane looked at her searchingly, slowly.

"Poor girl!" said she. "Dear girl! He could not help loving you--I
cannot help it myself. You are the only woman in the world, I think, for
him."

"I am not good enough," said Anne Oglesby stoutly. But then suddenly she
cast both her strong young arms about the neck of Aurora Lane and
dropped her head upon Aurora's shoulder.

"Oh, yes I am!" she said; "oh, yes I _am_! I know I must have been meant
for him, or else--else--"

But she did not as yet reveal the secret of the Sphinx. They both fell
silent.

"Ah, sacrifice!" said Aurora, wearily, after a time. "Sacrifice always
for the woman. We are all so bent on that."

"There's much more than that," said Anne Oglesby, sagely. "Besides,
sacrifice itself is not an odious thing. You sacrificed much of your
life, your happiness, your freedom. Are you sorry for that now, or
proud?"