the story had interested and touched her, as accounting for her lover's
saddened, conscience-ridden youth, it was no argument against teaching him
what youth meant in her philosophy. The differences were explained, but
not abolished.

"It was spite money, remember, not love money," he continued, reverting to
his story. "It purchased my mother's compliance to one who hated her
father, who forced her to listen, year after year, to bitter, unnatural
words against him. I am not sure but it kept her from him at the last; for
if Uncle Jacob had not stepped in and made her his, I can't help thinking
she would have found somehow a way to the soft place in his heart.
Something good ought to be done with that money to redeem its history."

"You must not be morbid, Paul."

"That sounds like mother," said Paul, smiling. "She is always jealous for
our happiness; because she lost her own, I think, and paid so heavily for
ours. She prizes pleasure and success, even worldly success, for us."

"I don't blame her!" cried Moya.

"No; of course not. But you mustn't both be against me, and Chrissy, too.
She is so, unconsciously; she does not know the pull there is on me,
through knowing things she doesn't dream of, and that I can never forget."

"No," said Moya. "I am sure she is perfectly unconscious. We exchanged
biographies at school, and there was nothing at all like this in hers. Why
was she never told?"

"She has always been too strained, too excitable. Every least incident is