more her inborn honesty and courage, her years-old resolution
triumphed.

"I cannot tell you who your father was, Don," said she quietly, at
length, ash pale, trembling.

"When were you married--when--where?"

"I was _never_ married, Don! What I told you was true! Oh, you make me
say a thing to you I ought never to have been asked to say, but it is
the truth. You may believe it--you must believe it--it's--it's no good
keeping on evading--for it's true, all of it." She was gasping, choking,
now. "This is a ghastly thing to have to do," she cried at last. "Ah, it
oughtn't ever to have been asked of me."

The boy's breath also came in a quick sob now.

"Mother, that's not true--it _can't_ be! Why, where does that leave
you--where does it leave _me_?"

Her voice rose as she looked at him, so young and strong, so fine, so
manly.

"But I'm not sorry," she exclaimed, "I'm not--I'm _not_!"

"So what they told me--what I made them all take back--_it was true_?"
He sank back in his chair.

"Yes, Don. We can't fight. We are ruined."

"Born out of wedlock!--But my father only ran away--you told me he was
dead."

"Regard him so, Don."

"Where is he--who was he? Why did that man tell me to fight them all?"

"I will never tell you, Don, never."

Her dark eyes were turned upon him now, eyes unspeakably sad.

"But you must! You wouldn't deny me my own chance in the world?"

"You will have to make your own chance, Don, as I did. We all must. I
have my secret. The door is closed. There is no power ever can open that
door--not even my love for you, my boy. Besides, the knowledge could be
of no use to you."

"Yes? Is that indeed so? You would debar me from the one great right of
all my life? Tell me, is my guess right? I'll make that man marry you."

"Ah, you mean revenge?"

He nodded, savagely, his jaws shut tight. But his brow grew troubled.
"But not if he came out and stood by me and you, even this late. I
suppose----"

"There is no revenge for a woman, Don. They only dream there is--once I
dreamed there might be for me. I don't want it now. I am content.
There's more pity than revenge about me now. I only want to be fair now,
if I can, and now I'm glad--this is my one glorious day. For you're
mine. You are my boy--and I'll never say that I am sorry. Because I've
got you. They can't help that, can they, Don?"

"He got us out of worse trouble, didn't he? Why did he do that, Mother?
What made him look at us the