intervals. She clung to me as her only comfort and hope. I was sullen
and wrathful and resentful, an unlicked cub, I suspect, whose complaints
were selfish ones concerning the giving up of my college life and its
pleasures, and the sacrifice of social position and wealth.

Mother had--or so we thought at the time--a sum in her own name which
would enable us to live; although not as we had lived by a great deal.
We took an apartment in an unfashionable quarter of the city, and thanks
to the lawyer--who proved himself a real and true friend--I was given
a minor position in a small bank. Oddly enough, considering my former
life, I liked the work, it interested me, and during the next few years
I was made, by successive promotions, bookkeeper, teller, and, at last,
assistant cashier. No news came from the absconder. The police had lost
track of him, and it seemed probable that he would never be heard of
again. But over Mother and myself hung always the dread that he might
be found and all the dreadful business revived once more. Mother never
mentioned it, nor did I, but the dread was there.

Then came the first breakdown in Mother's health which necessitated her
removal to the country. Luther and Dorinda Rogers were distant relatives
of our friend, the lawyer. They owned the little house by the shore at
Denboro and the lawyer had visited them occasionally on shooting and
fishing trips. They were in need of money, for, as Dorinda said: "We've
got two mouths in this family and only one pair of hands. One of the
mouths is so big that the hands can't fill it, let alone the mouth that
belongs to THEM." Mother--as Mrs. Paine, a widow--went there first as
a boarder, intending to remain but a few months. Dorinda took to her at
once, being attracted in the beginning, I think, by the name. "They call
you Comfort Paine," she said, "and you are a comfort to everybody else's
pain. Yet you ain't out of pain a minute scurcely, yourself. I never see