"Wal, thet's the mystery of it," was his quiet answer. Gathering his loose-jointed frame together, he rose. "Guess I 'll go an' look after the hosses; it's goin' ter be a skinner of a night." At the door he turned. "I know I ain't told you nothin' livenin', but it's life, an' I could n't tell it no other way. It ain't jest the thing ter air fam'ly troubles, but it's all past; an' what I 've told, I 've told ter my friends, an' I 'll thank _you_ ter let what I 've said be 'twixt us four." We sat in silence for a while after he had left the room. I was wondering how I could make excuse to get away from them all, get away by myself and have it out with myself, when Jamie broke the silence: "Doctor Rugvie, I 've been putting two and two together. You know what you told us the last time you were here about that New York episode? Do you suppose Cale's story is the key to that?" "Possibly it might be, if those episodes were not of common occurrence--there are so many all the time." "I know; but this fitted in almost every detail. I would n't ask him how long ago all this happened." "Nor I," was the Doctor's reply, and his answer gave a glimpse of his thought. "I will when it comes right." "Dear old Cale," I murmured. I felt it incumbent on me to say something, lest my unresponsiveness be noticed. The Doctor rose and took a cigar from the box on the mantel, saying almost to himself: "'There may be heaven, there must be hell, Meantime there is our earth here--well!' "Good night, Mrs. Macleod, good night, Boy--Marcia, good night." He spoke in his usual voice, but with noticeable abruptness. XXI So Cale knew. This was my first thought when I found myself alone in my room. Cale, then, was the husband of my mother's sister, Jemima Morey, who died before I was born, whose name I had heard but two or three times. My Aunt Keziah's mind grew dull in the strain of circumstance; she was never given a full supply of brains, and her memory weakened as she aged. Had she lived,--I shuddered at the thought,--she would have been imbecile like my grandfather and, doubtless, have lived to his age, ninety. In that case there would have been no life for me here. "But I _am_ here. I am going to remain here till I am sent away. Nothing that Cale has said shall influence me in this. All that is past--a part of another generation. I have put it all out of my life, once and for all. I live now and here, in Lamoral. I am not my mother; I am Marcia Farrell. I have not her life to answer for, and her life--oh, what she must have suffered!--shall no longer influence mine. "I am free! I declare myself free from the bondage of past memories, free, and I will to remain so."'