"Marcia, I ain't no right to speak--to break a promise; but, by God, I 'll do it this time to save you--whatever comes! Gordon Ewart ain't no more your father 'n I am, for he was your mother's husband." "My mother's husband?" I echoed, but weakly. I failed for a few seconds to comprehend. "Yes, your mother's husband. Gordon Ewart is George Jackson--George Gordon Ewart Jackson, thet is what he was christened, an' I 've known it sence the furst minute I set eyes on him in full lamplight, here in this very house on the fifteenth day of last November. Do you want any more proof?" There is a limit to human suffering; a time when a surcharge of misery leaves mind and heart and soul numb. It was so with me upon hearing Cale's statement. "Did he know you?" I asked almost apathetically. "Yes, but it took him twenty-four hours. I 've changed more 'n he has." "Why did n't he use his own name?" "It is his own. He sloughed off thet part of it thet hindered him from cuttin' loose from all thet old life, he said, an' made the new one legal." "Did he know me?" "I don't know for sure. He ain't the kind to rake over a heap of dead ashes for the sake of findin' one little spark. But, Marcia, I believe he knew you from the minute he first see you there in the passageway." "What makes you think so?" "Because you are the livin' image of your mother, as I told you once before. But you act different. An' he loved her so, he could n't help but seein' her in you--" "Oh, my God!" I think it was a groan rather than an exclamation. My head dropped on Cale's hand, as it lay over mine. The flashlight of intuition showed me the truth: this man, my mother's husband, the man who was dearer to me than life itself, was again loving her, whom he had loved only to lose, in me--her daughter! He was loving me because of her, not because of myself. Oh, I saw it in every detail! I saw every ugly feature in every act of the whole tragedy; and I saw myself the dupe of that Past from which I had tried so hard to escape. I raised my head. My decision was made. I looked at Cale defiantly. I think every fibre of me, moral, physical, mental, spiritual, revolted then and there against being made longer a mere shuttlecock for the battledores of Fate. "Cale, when does the next afternoon train leave the junction--the one that connects with the Southern Quebec for New England?" "Don't, Marcia, in the name of all that's holy, don't do nothing rash. I meant it for the best--" "I know you did; but that won't prevent my going." "But, hear to reason, Marcia; wait till Ewart comes---hear what he has to say--I 'm placed where I can't speak. Wait a few days." His hand felt clammy cold under mine. I pulled mine away. I hurt him, but I did not care. "There is nothing to be said. I am going. When does that train leave?" "Seven-five. What will Ewart say? You are doing him a bitterer wrong than your mother before you."