over sensibly, I'll tell you how we feel--at
least how I feel. The chief business of any proper marriage is children.
This marriage between Kenyon and Lila--if it comes--should bring forth
fruit. I claim Lila has a right to know that he has my blood and yours
in him before she goes into a life partnership with him."

"Oh, Grant, Grant," cried Margaret passionately, "the sum of your
hair-splitting is this: that you bring shame upon your child's mother,
and then cant like a Pharisee about its being for a good purpose. That's
the way with you--you--you--" She could not quite finish the sentence.

She sat breathing fast, waiting for strength to come to her from the
fortifying little pill. Grant picked up his hat. "Well--I've told you.
That's what I came for."

She caught his arm and cried, "Sit down--haven't I a right to be heard?
Hasn't a mother any rights--"

"No," cut in Grant, "not when she strangles her motherhood!"

"But how could I take my motherhood without disgracing my boy?" she
asked.

He met her eyes. They were steady eyes, and were brightening. The man
stared at her and answered: "When I brought him to you after mother
died, a little, toddling, motherless boy, when I wanted you to come with
us to mother him--and I didn't want you, Maggie, any more than you
wanted me, but I thought his right to a mother was greater than either
of our rights to our choice of mates--then and there, you made your
final choice."

"What does God mean," she whined, "by hounding me all my life for that
one mistake!"

"Maggie--Maggie," answered the man, sitting down as she sank into a
chair, "it wasn't the one mistake that has made you unhappy."

"That's twaddle," she retorted, "sheer twaddle. Don't I know how that
child has been a cancer in my very heart--burning and gnawing and making
me wretched? Don't I know?"

"No, you don't, Mag. If you want the truth," replied Grant bluntly, "you
looked upon the boy as a curse. He has threatened you every day of your
life. The very love you think you have for him, which I don't doubt for
a minute, Mag, made you do a mad, foolish, infinitely cruel, spiteful
thing--that night at the South Harvey riot. Perhaps you might care for
Kenyon's affection now, but you can't have that even remotely. For all
his interest in you is limited by the fact that you robbed Lila of her
father. All your cancer and heart burnings, Mag, have been your own
selfishness. Lord, woman--I know you."

He turned