Mary had pedestaled Sibyl and believed in her, refusing to see aught but goodness, until her foolish belief became no longer possible. Then, with her eyes opened, she marveled at her almost incomprehensible blindness. Why had she not seen before? If she had seen before she might have saved Ben, she thought. She recalled the genial Mr. Plimpton. Had Sibyl, by incessant demands for money, wrought the financial overthrow of Plimpton? Every suggestion that came to her now was sickening and horrible. Such an awakening is often disastrous in its results. Doubt of humanity itself is a fruit of that tree of knowledge, and that doubt had come to Mary. Lucy took the unhappy girl in her arms. She was herself grieved and shocked. “You poor dear!” was all she was able to say at first. “And, oh, I am to blame for it all!” Mary sobbed, putting her arms about the neck of her comforter. “I can see what a fool I was, and it was pride that made me a fool. I went up there as ignorant as a child; I thought it would be fine to live in a city and be a lady and drive round in a carriage. How I hate that carriage! And that coachman. I know even he must have thought horrid things about me. And Plimpton! I know what Plimpton was now, and I hate him. It seems to me I could stamp on him if I saw him fall down in the street. And I—I hate—oh, there isn’t a word strong enough to tell how I hate Mrs. Dudley! I thought she was an angel, and she is—is—a brute!” “You poor dear!” said Lucy, smoothing back the dark hair from the fevered and tear-wet face. “You poor dear! You have been cruelly deceived and abused. It doesn’t seem possible! I was as much deceived as you, for I thought Mrs. Dudley a very pleasant woman. There were some things about her I didn’t like, about the way she dressed and painted, yet I never thought but that she was a good woman. I didn’t suspect anything, for you told me she was rich.” “And that’s what she told me, but she lied; she’s been getting her money from fools like Plimpton and Ben. And I used her money, and lived in her house, and rode about in her carriage with all Denver gaping at me, and never knew a thing. Even this dress I have on was bought with her money. I want to tear it off and stamp it into the mud; but I haven’t a thing to wear that she didn’t get for me, not a thing. And my—my silly pride is to blame—is to blame for Ben, and everything. If I hadn’t gone with her Ben might never have met her. But if Ben could only be induced to quit drinking, something could be done with him yet. I almost wish he would get sick; anything to keep him away from that woman.” “Did he say anything to you?”