“I am glad, mother,” said Aunt Lorena, “that you think me capable of performing such an important and delicate task.” “Lorena, you were a Ravanel, and the Ravanels have no need to doubt themselves. I could place her in no better hands.” “My Aunt Lorena has already been looking after me more kindly than I can say, madam grandmother,” I said. “I cannot tell you how good she was to me when I was ill.” “Hah!” cried my grandmother, “I like your voice, Azalea. Moreover, I like your manner; and I admire your name. I wish to hear something of your life. David and Lorena, you have, no doubt, already heard this story. If you wish to withdraw you may do so. Please close the doors as you go. My granddaughter and myself will have a conference.” Carin, would you have supposed anyone could speak in this manner in the present day and generation? I would never have believed it myself if I had not heard it. Sampson, the old butler, was summoned to bring up a low, comfortable chair for me, and sitting in this, holding my grandmother’s little wrinkled, jeweled hands in mine, I told her all the story. Once she asked me to ring to have the fire lighted in the great fireplace, and “old James,” as the utility man is called, came in and did it. Otherwise we were left quite to ourselves. Callers came, but she asked to be excused. “I have been receiving callers all my life,” she said to me, “but never, never before have I sat with a granddaughter of my own—and as true a Knox as ever drew the breath of life. Every tone of your voice, my dear, reminds me of your father; every look and gesture is like him. This is the happiest day I have had for many years.” “You do not question my identity at all, madam grandmother,” I said. “It is very gracious of you.” “The story your Uncle David told me was convincing, my child. But aside from that, your face is a confirmation of the truth of your story. But continue, please. I wish to hear everything you have to say.” So I talked on and on, and she listened seriously and kindly, sometimes with her head drooping a little, other times proudly, with her little gold-bound glasses raised. I could see that she suffered horribly when I told of how my sweet mother and I had struggled on, how we had gone hungry and cold and had had to associate with drunken, coarse, cruel people. But I told her everything. I seemed to owe that much to my little mother. Then, after a long time, I finished. She looked at me with a strange, sad, wistful air that made me, for all her pride, think of a child who had done wrong and who wished to be forgiven. “I am sorry,” she said, “that you did not know your father, Azalea. You would have loved him. No one could help loving him. Please, for my sake, do not hate his memory.” “No, no,” I answered, “I will not hate him, or anyone. I haven’t time to hate anyone.”