"Stop!" said Rosemary. Her voice was low and controlled, but her face was very white. "Not another word against my mother. You've slandered her for the last time. I am not a poor orphan, beholden to my grandmother for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. On the contrary, you and Aunt Matilda are dependent upon me, and have been for a good many years. I have father's letter here. Do you care to read it?" Shaken from head to foot, the old lady sank into her chair. She was speechless, but her eyes blazed. Matilda sat by the window, dumb with astonishment. This was not at all what she had expected. Rosemary had drawn a yellow old letter from the recesses of her brown gingham gown and was offering it to Grandmother. The sight of it had affected the old lady powerfully. [Sidenote: The Money] "Very well," Rosemary was saying, as she returned the letter to its hiding-place. "In case you've forgotten, I'll tell you what's in it. The day father sailed up the coast, he sent you a draft for more than eleven thousand dollars. He said it was for me--for my clothes and my education, in case anything happened to him. He said that you were to give me whatever I might want or need, as long as the money lasted. I'll leave it to you whether you've carried out his instructions or not. "Now that I'm going to be married, I've taken the liberty of helping myself to a small part of what is my own. There's almost two thousand dollars left, and you're quite welcome to it, but I won't be married in brown gingham nor go to my husband in ragged shoes, and if I think of anything else I want, I'm going to have it." "Ma," said Matilda, tremulously, "if this is so, we ain't done right by Rosemary." "It's so," Rosemary continued, turning toward the figure at the window. "You can read the letter if you want to." She put her hand to her breast again, but Matilda shook her head. [Sidenote: Grandmother's Decision] "If you want me to," the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh will take me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden, or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of my own blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don't feel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread. That's all." Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face was colourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr," she said, with long pauses between the words, "I'll never--speak to--you--again as--long as--I--live." Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon her heart. "Very well, Grandmother," Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders. "You'll have to do as you like about that." By supper-time the household was calm again--upon the surface. True to her word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. She treated the girl as she might a piece of furniture--unworthy of attention except in times of actual use.