t all--I never
belonged to them or they to me--except Noreen. And it's queer about
Noreen, too, she will never seem part of all that."

Mary-Clare, her eyes fixed on the fire, was thinking aloud; her breath
came short and quick as if she had been running.

"My dear child!" Aunt Polly was shocked in spite of herself. "No woman
can shake off her responsibilities in that way. Larry is your husband
and you have been a mother."

"You are talking _words_, Aunt Polly, not things." Aunt Polly knew
that she _was_ and it made her wince.

"That's the trouble with us all, Aunt Polly. Saying words over and
over and calling them things--as if you could take God in!"

There was no bitterness in the tones, but there was the weary
impatience of a child that had been too often denied the truth.

"No matter what people say and say, underneath there is _truth_, Aunt
Polly, and it's up to us to find it."

"And you think you are competent"--Aunt Polly, reflecting that she was
using _words_, used them doubtfully--"you think you are competent to
know what _is_ truth and to act upon it--to the extent of sending your
husband out of his home?"

If a small love-bird could look and sound fierce it would resemble
Aunt Polly at that moment. Mary-Clare turned from the contemplation of
the fire and fixed her deep eyes upon the troubled old face.

"You dear!" she whispered and then laughed.

Presently, the fire again holding her, Mary-Clare went on:

"I think I must try to find truth with my woman-brain, Aunt Polly.
That was what my doctor-daddy always insisted upon. He wouldn't even
let me take _his_ word when it came to anything that meant a lot to
me."

"He wanted you to marry Larry!"

This was a telling stroke and a long silence followed. Then:

"I wonder, Aunt Polly, I wonder."

"Do you doubt, child?"

"I don't know, but even if he did he was sick and so--so tired, and
Larry always worried him. I know very surely that if my doctor were
here, and knew everything, he'd say harder than ever: 'Use your
woman-mind.' And I'm going to! Why, Aunt Polly, I haven't driven Larry
away from his home. I meant to make it a better place, once I set the
wrong aside. But you see, he wanted it just _his_ way and nothing else
would do."

The dear old face that had confronted life vicariously flushed gently;
but the young face that had set itself to the stern facts of life
showed neither weakness nor doubt.

"It has come to me, dear"--Mary-Clare