rtune with the children
of his blood. Thence the law-case Bewick _versus_ Barton, which for
a period filled the city of Denver in Colorado of the United States as
if with poisonous fumes. The literal daughters, two in number, who had
shown no filial love for the unfortunate old man, in trying to annul
their father's will, left nothing undone or unspoken that could help
their _turpe_, or evil, purpose, even attempting to prove that not
only had the devoted nurse been their father's _amante_--[You can
guess what that is, Aurora. They are much simpler here than we at home
about calling things by their names, and much more outspoken on all
subjects], but had likewise been the _amante_ of the son, sole
member of the family who supported her claim to the share of the fortune
appointed by the father. Justice in the event prevailed, but a tired and
broken woman emerged from the conflict. What to do to regain a little
of that pleasure in living which blackening calumnies and rodent
ill-will, even when not victorious, can destroy in the upright and
feeling nature? The imagination which had prompted in childhood the
acting out of fairy-stories here came into play: Leave behind the scene
of sorrows, take ship, and point the prow toward the land of orange and
myrtle, of golden marbles and wine-colored sunsets; change name, begin
again, do good under a beautiful appellation which the poor should learn
to love and speak in their prayers to the last of their days....

* * * * *

"The rest, Aurora dear, is pure flattery, which it becomes me not to
speak nor you to hear. I won't read it."

"Well, I never!" breathed Aurora. "Who did it?"

"We did it! My father and your Doctor Bewick and Carlo Guerra and I. We
did it to be before anybody else, set the worst that could be brought up
against you in a light that explains and justifies. We did our best to
fix the public mind and show it what it should think. You know what the
mind of the public is. We've hypnotized the beast, I hope; it has taken
its bent from us."

"But--"

"This was the way of it, my dear. The day after Brenda's wedding I was
at the Fontanas,--she was a Miss Andrews, you know, of
Indianapolis,--and there was Charlie, too, and there was likewise Madame
Sartorio, who is Colonel Fontana's niece by his first marriage. We were
talking in a little group when something, I forget what, was said about
you, Aurora. Charlie--for what re