dimly through the mist, her eyes fixed as if she were
studying the sky line.

"George," she said. "You don't understand. You will come
to me always. But that woman never shall cross my
threshold."
"Mother! Do you mean what you say?"

It was a man, not a shuffling boy that spoke now. "Do
you mean that we are not to go to you to-morrow? Not to
go home in October? Never----"

"Your home is open to you. But Pauline Felix's child is
no more to me than a wild beast--or a snake in the grass,
and never can be." She faced him steadily now.

"There she is," said Frances, looking at the little black
figure under the trees, "and here am I. You can choose
between us."

"Those whom God hath joined together," muttered George.
"You know that."

"You have known her for three weeks," cried Frances
vehemently. "I gave you life. I have been your slave
every hour since you were born. I have lived but for
you. Which of us has God joined together?"

"Mother, you're damnably unreasonable! It is the course
of nature for a man to leave his parents and cleave to