t member of her family to
compromise a man so that he had to marry her."

"What do you mean?" demanded Eleanor, quivering with indignation.

"That's neither here nor there," said Madam. "There's enough rottenness
in the present without raking up the past. But one thing is certain: if
they ask you for money again----"

"I tell you, they didn't ask me!"

"Not in so many words, perhaps, but they worked on your sympathies. I
know them! As for Claude Martel, he would want nothing better than have
you traveling around in some Punch and Judy show. But I scotched that
nonsense once and for all. As for their bleeding you for money,"--she
rose and crushed the check in her hand,--"I guess I know a way to stop
that."

Eleanor rose too, and faced her. She was very pale now, her anger having
reached a white heat.

"My mother's people may be poor," she said deliberately, "but they aren't
beggars, and at least they've come by what they have honestly."

It was Madam's turn to flinch. A certain famous law-suit in the history
of Bartlett & Bangs had brought out some startling testimony, and the
subject was one to which reference was never allowed in Madam's presence.
At Eleanor's words the whirlwind of her wrath let loose. Her words
hurtled like flying missiles in a cyclone. She lashed herself into a
fury, coming back to Eleanor again and again as the cause of all her
trouble.

"I tried giving you your head," she raged in conclusion; "I let you work
through that crazy stage fever; I gave in about that man Phipps coming up
to Maine, in the hope that you'd find out what a fool he is. That wasn't
enough! You had to write to him. Very well, said I; go ahead and write to
him. I flattered myself that you might develop a little sense. But I was
mistaken. You haven't got the judgment of a ten-year-old child. Therefore
I intend to treat you like a child. From this time on you are not to
write to him at all. And you'll get no allowance. I'll buy you what you
need, and you'll account for all the pin-money you spend, down to every
postage stamp. Do you understand?"

Eleanor was by this time at the door, standing with her hand on the knob,
straight, pale, and defiant, but quivering in every limb. She felt as
beaten, bruised, and humiliated as if the violence directed against her
had been physical. A sick longing surged over her for Aunt Enid, into
whose arms she could rush for comfort. But there was no Aunt Enid to turn
to, and it was no us