was her misfortune and a very grievous misfortune, though, however
grievous, it was as nothing to other circumstances for which she
subsequently blamed herself, after having previously attributed them to
fate, or rather, as fate is more modernly known, to karma.

Any belief may console. A belief in karma not only consoles, it
explains. As such it is not suited to those who accept things on faith,
which is a very good way to accept to them. It may be credulous to
believe that Jehovah dictated the ten commandments. But the commandments
are sound. Moreover it is perhaps better to be wrong in one's belief's
than not to have any.

Margaret Austen believed in karma and in many related and wonderful
things. Her face showed it. It showed other things; appreciation,
sympathy, unworldliness, good-breeding and that minor charm that beauty
is. It showed a girl good to look at, good through and through; a girl
tall, very fair, who smiled readily, rarely laughed and never
complained.

It is true that at the time this drama begins it would have been
captious of her to have complained of anything were it not that life is
so ordered that it has sorrow for shadow. The shadow on this human rose
was her mother.

Mrs. Austen had seen worse days and never proposed to see them again.
Among the chief assets of her dear departed was a block of New Haven.
The stock, before collapsing, shook. Then it tripped, fell and kept at
it. Through what financial clairvoyance the dear departed's trustee got
her out, just in time, and, quite illegally but profitably, landed her
in Standard Oil is not a part of this drama. But meanwhile she had
shuddered. Like many another widow, to whom New Haven was as good as
Governments, she might have been in the street. Pointing at her had been
that spectre--Want!

It was just that which she never proposed to see again. The spectre in
pointing had put a mark on this woman who was arrogant, ambitious and
horribly shrewd.

A tall woman with a quick tongue, a false front, an air of great
affability and, when on parade, admirably sent out, she ruled her
daughter, or thought she did, which is not quite the same thing.

Margaret Austen was ruled by her conscience and her beautiful beliefs.
These were her masters. This human rose was their lovely slave. But
latterly a god had enthralled her. It was with wonder and thanksgiving
that she recognised the overlordship of that brat of a divinity, whom
poets call Eros, and t