"You have not answered my question," the unconscionable mother pursued.
"Does he know--is it known that you are not the great heiress your name
would imply?"

"Everything is known," said the girl. "You do not read your society column,
I see. Six weeks ago you might have learned the fate of my father's
millions."

She stood by the balustrade and leaned out under the stars, taking a deep
breath of the night's growing coolness. A rose-spray touched her face. She
put it back, and a shower of dry, scented petals fell upon her breast and
sleeve.

"There is always one point in every true story," she said in a tired voice,
"where explanations cease to explain. The mysteries claim their share in
us, deny them as we will. I don't know why it was, but from the time I
threw off all that bondage to society and struck out for myself, I felt
made over. Life began again with life's realities. I came home to earn my
bread, and on that footing I felt sane and clean and honest. The question
became not what I am or was, but what could I do? I discussed the question
with your son."

"You discussed!"

"We did, indeed. We went over the whole field. East and west we tested
my accomplishments by the standards of those who want teachers for their
children. I have gone rather further in music than anything else. Even
Fraeulein would hardly say now I lacked an outlet. I was working things off
one evening on the piano--many things beyond the power of speech--the help
of prayer, I might say. There were whispers about me already in the house."