de very unhappy in
such a case."

Eugene looked at Suzanne's lovely face. It seemed so strange to hear her
reasoning so solemnly--this girl!

"But you heard what she said about me, Suzanne, and about her
condition?"

"I know," she said. "I've thought about it. I don't see that it makes so
very much difference. You can take care of her."

"You love me just as much?"

"Yes."

"Even if all she says is true?"

"Yes."

"Why, Suzanne?"

"Well, all her charges concerned years gone by, and that isn't now. And
I know you love me now. I don't care about the past. You know, Eugene, I
don't care anything about the future, either. I want you to love me only
so long as you want to love me. When you are tired of me, I want you to
leave me. I wouldn't want you to live with me if you didn't love me. I
wouldn't want to live with you if I didn't love you."

Eugene looked into her face, astonished, pleased, invigorated, and
heartened by this philosophy. It was so like Suzanne, he thought. She
seemed to have reached definite and effective conclusions so early. Her
young mind seemed a solvent for all life's difficulties.

"Oh, you wonderful girl!" he said. "You know you are wiser than I am,
stronger. I draw to you, Suzanne, like a cold man to a fire. You are so
kindly, so temperate, so understanding!"

They rode on toward Tarrytown and Scarborough, and on the way Eugene
told Suzanne some of his plans. He was willing not to leave Angela, if
that was agreeable to her. He was willing to maintain this outward show,
if that was satisfactory. The only point was, could he stay and have
her, too? He did not understand quite how she could want to share him
with anybody, but he could not fathom her from any point of view, and he
was fascinated. She seemed the dearest, the subtlest, the strangest and
most lovable girl. He tried to find out by what process she proposed to
overcome the objections of her mother, but Suzanne seemed to have no
plans save that of her ability to gradually get the upper hand mentally
and dominate her. "You know," she said at one point, "I have money
coming to me. Papa set aside two hundred thousand dollars for each of us
children when we should come of age, and I am of age now. It is to be
held in trust, but I shall have twelve thousand or maybe more from that.
We can use that. I am of age now, and I have never said anything about
it. Mama has managed all these things."

Here was another thought which hearten