"My dear, my dear," cried her mother, coming up to her and laying her hands on the tall girl's shoulders, "you have paid me in full now. What you have just said pays off all the debts. I was afraid that my children hated me." "You poor old dear!" cried Anne, her eyes shining. "If you will only let me show you how much I can love you. We are pretty much alike, mother, you and I. We—" "No!" cried out the other fiercely. "I do not want you to say that. I do not want you to be like me. Never say that to me again. I want you to be happy, and you will never be happy if you are like me." "Piffle!" said Anne, and kissed her mother soundly. And she knew then, as she had always known, that her mother was not and never could be a happy woman. Even in her affection for her own children she was the spirit of selfishness. She loved them for what they meant to her and not for themselves. She was consistent. She knew herself better than any one else knew her. "Now, tell me how much you need," went on Anne, eagerly. "I've hated to broach the subject to you. It didn't seem right that I should. But I don't care now. I want to do all that I can." "I will not offend you, or insult you, Anne, by saying that you are a good girl,—a better one than I thought you would ever be. You can't help me, however. Don't worry about me. I shall get on, thank you." "Just the same, I insist on paying your bills, and setting you straight once more for another fling. And you are going to Newport this week. Come, now, mother dear, let's get it over with. Tell me about _everything_. You may hop into debt again just as soon as you like, but I'll feel a good deal better if I know that it isn't on my account. It isn't right that you should still have George and me hanging about your neck like millstones. Come! I insist. Let's figure it all up." An hour afterward, she said to her mother: "I'll make out one check to you covering everything, mother. It will look better if you pay them yourself. Thirty-seven thousand four hundred and twelve dollars. That's everything, is it,—you're sure?" "Everything," said Mrs. Tresslyn, settling back in her chair. "I will not attempt to thank you, Anne. You see, I didn't thank Lutie when she threw her money in my face, for somehow I knew that I'd give it all back to her again. Well, you may have to wait longer than she did, my dear, but this will all come back to you. I sha'n't live forever, you know." Anne kissed her. "You are a wonder, mother dear. You wouldn't come off of your high-horse for anything, would you? By Jove, that's what I like most in you. You never knuckle." "My dear, you are picking up a lot of expressions from Lutie."