repetition, in the young girl's deep honest voice that for one instant
her two more emotional relatives quailed before it; but only for a
moment.

"That's right!" shrilled the old woman. "Go on and abuse your own
brother. It's only the fear you have that he'll make his fortune yet and
shame you before the father and mother you despise."

The young girl remained standing by the window, motionless and
apparently passive, as if receiving an accepted and usual punishment.
But here the elder woman gave way to sobs and some incoherent snuffling,
at which the younger went away. Whether she recognized in her mother's
tears the ordinary deliquescence of emotion, or whether, as a woman
herself, she knew that this mere feminine conventionality could not
possibly be directed at her, and that the actual conflict between them
had ceased, she passed slowly on to an inner hall, leaving the male
victim, her unfortunate father, to succumb, as he always did sooner or
later, to their influence. Crossing the hall, which was decorated with a
few elk horns, Indian trophies, and mountain pelts, she entered another
room, and closed the door behind her with a gesture of relief.

The room, which looked upon a porch, presented a singular combination of
masculine business occupations and feminine taste and adornment. A desk
covered with papers, a shelf displaying a ledger and account-books,
another containing works of reference, a table with a vase of flowers
and a lady's riding-whip upon it, a map of California flanked on either
side by an embroidered silken workbag and an oval mirror decked with
grasses, a calendar and interest-table hanging below two school-girl
crayons of classic heads with the legend, "Josephine Forsyth
fecit,"--were part of its incongruous accessories. The young girl