Mrs. Bruce panted and flushed. “I did talk to her of her ill judgment—you don’t know, Irving—what do you think of her spending her savings of years on Rosalie Vincent?” “She didn’t.” “Why, of course she did. Who else paid the hundreds of dollars which brought her here and equipped her?” “An old friend of her father’s family. Betsy had no need to spend a cent for her, although she would have asked nothing better, I have no doubt; because her life has been spent in doing for others. She knew that Rosalie would not accept such gifts from her, because that girl is a kindred noble soul.” Mrs. Bruce took a step backward in this destruction of the very foundation of her defense. “I don’t ask to know all the pitiful scene that took place. This,” Irving indicated the desolation of the room with a wave of his hand, “this speaks. Betsy has gone—” “She did it in revenge,” cried Mrs. Bruce. “She knew how it would make you suffer. She wanted to punish me.” “Alas!” said Irving, “I know Betsy. She has been driven out of my father’s house—_my_ house—without first talking to me; without putting her good arms around my neck—” The speaker’s voice stopped short; his shoulders were again convulsed. Mrs. Bruce stood in the same spot, watching him with miserable eyes, wringing her hands. “Don’t—don’t say such things, Irving. Don’t feel so. I’ll—I’ll do anything. I’ll find her and—and apologize—I was mistaken—I’ll say so.” Irving made a gesture of repression. She gazed at him, mute and miserable. At last he turned and faced her. She was a figure to excite compassion in that moment, as she met the regard of his reddened eyes. “It is too late for that, Madama. The break has come. It can’t be mended. Betsy would never go in this way if there were a possibility of her coming back.” A sense of her own loss came to Mrs. Bruce with the kinder tone of Irving’s voice. “I wish to speak to you also of another matter; of the cause of your excitement last night, before we part.” “Part!” she repeated acutely. “I mean only leaving this room. I wish for your own sake that you may regret the unwomanliness of your attitude toward Miss Vincent—Rosalie.” Mrs. Bruce lifted questioning, dilated eyes. “To think that it was she—that innocent girl, who could move you to cause this disaster. Examine your own consciousness. See what it is that could give the Powers of Darkness such easy access and sway.” “I was jealous, Irving—jealous of Mrs. Nixon—” “And angry because you could not dominate the situation,” added Irving. A painful color burned Mrs. Bruce’s face. “I’m going to tell you,” he went on after a pause, “that no girl I have ever met has attracted me as Rosalie Vincent does.” “Irving!”