fact was silent partner in this very
millinery shop--and silent partner in yet other affairs of which Don
Lane was yet to learn.

This was a great day for Miss Julia as well as for Don's mother. Time
and again these two women had sat in this very room and planned for this
homecoming of the boy--this boy--time and again planned, and then agreed
he must not come--their son. For--yes--they _both_ called him son! If
Don Lane, Dieudonne Lane, was _filius nullius_, at least he might boast
two mothers.

How came this to pass? One would need to go back into the story of Miss
Julia's life as well as that of Aurora Lane. She had been lame from
birth, hopelessly so, disfiguringly so. Yet callous nature had been kind
to her, had been compassionate. It gave to her a face of wondrous
sweetness, a heart of wondrous softness thereto. Hopeless and resigned,
yet never pathetic and never seeking pity, no living soul had ever heard
an unkind or impatient word from Julia Delafield's lips, not in all her
life, even when she was a child. She had suffered, yes. The story of
that was written on her face--she knew she might not hope--and yet she
hoped.

She knew all the great romances of the world, and knew likewise more
than the greatest romancer ever wrote of women. For her--even with her
wistful smile, the sudden flashing of her wistful eyes--there could be
no romance, and she knew that well. Not for her was to be ever the love
of man. She was of those cruelly defective in body, who may not hope for
any love worth having. Surrounded daily by her friends, her books, Miss
Julia was an eager reader, and an eager lover. She knew more of life's
philosophy perhaps than any soul in all her town, and yet she might
enjoy less of life's rewards than any other. A woman to the heart,
feminine in every item, flaming with generous instincts, and yet denied
all hope of motherhood; a woman steeped in philosophy and yet trained in
emotion--what must she do--what could she do--she, one of the denied?

What Miss Julia had done long years ago was to select as her best
friend the girl who of all in that heartless little town most needed a
friend--Aurora Lane. She knew Aurora's secret--in part. In full she
never yet had asked to know, so large was she herself of heart. All
Spring Valley had scorned Aurora Lane, for that she had no father for
her child. And--with what logic or lack of logic, who shall say?--Julia
Delafield had taken Aurora Lane close to her ow