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"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered

vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I

have a right to know. Were you married to my father?"

She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible

moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she

had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror.

Indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The

vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The

situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It

reminded her of a bad rehearsal.

"No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

"My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his

fists.

She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other

very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us.

Don't speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a

gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected."