"He did not return that night. And after three days' fruitless vigil, there was no use hoping further. A priest came to our small cottage, and said some words as empty as the promise of afterlife. My brother and I held candles in our hands, and I think he was truly shocked that I shed not a single tear. He could not know that my nights for many years had been filled with them, and that those last, worry-sick three had drained the well to its dregs, and beyond. That was the end of it. My first love was gone, leaving me a widow at nineteen, wholly without means. "My brother did what he could for me, I'll give him that. And he would have played the father well enough for you, if the Fever* hadn't got him first. They're not all bad; I do know it. But the good ones with hearts that feel, are forever and always at the mercy of them that don't---the aggressive lot who just take, and trample, without thinking. *Typhus. "But here, I'm ahead of myself, and you look near done-in. Into bed with you now, and enough of my sad stories." "No!" said her daughter at once. "You promised. I want to hear it all!" Though she was in fact tired and morose, and beginning to feel again the ache of her affliction, Mary sensed that now or never would she learn the whole truth. She must show this woman that she too could be strong, and was not afraid of dark reality. The widow MacCain looked hard at her, trying to gauge the depth, and source, of her daughter's desire to know. But at the same time she felt the slow stirrings of concerned motherhood, and at that not the detached, objective instincts of a guardian, the role she had been forced to assume, and grown accustomed to these many years. She turned away, and wrung her hands as if deep in thought. "All right," she said at last. "But we must get you into bed in any case. I'll not have you seriously ill." She rose, and took the tea-cup from Mary's hand. She turned down the covers for her, and saw her securely tucked in. Then to her dismay as she sat down on the bed beside her, felt such a surge of tenderness for this innocent extension of her own flesh, that it was only with difficulty she did not bend down and kiss her damp, flushed forehead. "Go on," said Mary, who in her mother's eyes crossed that very hour from adolescence into womanhood. There was no denying the soul inside her. "Are you very sure, lass? I do not say it in mockery, but truth be told it's not a tale to make the young heart glad. I'll understand if you've had enough." "No, really, I'm all right now. Mother," and she took her hand. "I want to know." The woman gave a sigh, and shook her head. She found herself cornered, and not by the hounds and hunters of treachery, but by honesty and simple love. There was only one way out: forward, through memories and emotions she had long banished. There was nothing else for it. She continued.