"And now, Mother, there is one thing more. We may not have another opportunity for a real house-cleaning. It's about King's Forest." Helen started, but she stiffened at once. "Yes, Brace," she said simply. "There is a girl, a woman there. Such things as relate to that woman and me often happen to men and women. It's what one does to the happening that counts. I realize that my life has had much in it; but much was left out of it. Much that is common stuff to most fellows; they take it in portions. It came all at once to me, but she was strong enough, fine enough to help me; not drift with me. I wanted you to know." "Thank you. I understand. Is there anything you would like to have me do?" "No. Nothing, Mother. It is all right; it had to happen, I suppose. I wanted you to know. We did not dishonour the thing--she's quite wonderful." A pause; then: "She has a brute of a husband--I hope I freed her of him, in a way; I'm glad to think of that now. She has a child, a little girl, and there were some dead children." This detail seemed tragically necessary to tell; it seemed to explain all else. "And now, Mother, I must go around to Kathryn's. Do not sit up, dear. I'll come to your room." "Very well." Then Helen stood up and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Some sons and daughters," she said slowly, convincingly, "learn how to bear life, in part, from their parents--I have learned from my son." Then she raised her hands and drew his head down to hers and rested her cheek against his. Without a word more Northrup left the house. He was deeply moved by the scene through which he and his mother had just passed. It had consisted of small and trivial things; of overwhelmingly big things, but it had been marked by a complete understanding and had brought them both to a point where they could separate with faith and hope. But as Northrup neared Kathryn's house this exalted feeling waned. Again he was aware of the disloyal doubt of Kathryn that made him hesitate and weigh his method of approach. He stood, before touching the bell of the Morris house, and shook the light snow from his coat; he was glad of delay. When at last he pushed the button he instinctively braced. The maid who admitted him told him that he was to go to the library. This was the pleasantest room in the house, especially at night. The lighting was perfect; the old books gave forth a welcoming fragrance and, to-night, a generous cannel coal fire puffed in rich, glowing bursts of heat and colour upon the hearth. Kathryn was curled up in the depths of a leather chair, her pretty blonde head just showing above the top. She did not get up but called merrily: "Here, dear! Come and be comfy. This is a big chair and a very little me."