It was several days before the story reached Monterey. When it did, the girls treated Patience to invective and contumely, but delivered their remarks at long range. The mother of Manuela said peremptorily that Patience Sparhawk should never darken the doors of the Peralta mansion again, and even Mrs. Thrailkill told the weeping Rosita that the intimacy must end. Miss Galpin was horrified. When school was over she took Patience firmly by the hand and led her up the hill to her boarding-place, the widow Thrailkill’s ancestral home. The long low adobe house was traversed from end to end by a pillared corridor. It was whitewashed every year, and its red tiles were renewed at intervals, but otherwise the march of civilisation had passed it by. Mrs. Thrailkill, large and brown, with a wart between her kind black eyes, and a handsome beard, was rocking herself on the corridor. When she recognised the teacher’s companion she arose with great dignity and swung herself into the house. Miss Galpin led Patience down the corridor to a room at the end, and motioned her to a chair. Several magazines lay on a table, and Patience reached her hand to them involuntarily; but Miss Galpin took the hand and drew the girl toward her. The young teacher’s brown eyes wore a very puzzled expression. Even her carefully regulated bang had been pushed upward with a sudden dash of the hand. She was only twenty-two, and her experience of human nature was limited. Her ideas of life were accumulated largely from the novels of Mr. Howells and Mr. James, whom she revered; and neither of these gentlemen photographed such characters as Patience. It had probably never occurred to them that Patiences existed. She experienced a sudden thrill of superiority, then craved pardon of her idols. “Patience, dear,” she said gently, “is this terrible story true?” “Yes, ma’am,” said Patience, standing passively at Miss Galpin’s knee. “You actually tried to kill your mother?” “Yes, ma’am.” Miss Galpin gasped. She waited a moment for a torrent of excuse and explanation; but Patience was mute. “And you are not sorry?” she faltered. “No, ma’am.” “Oh, Patience!” “I’m sorry you feel so badly, ma’am. Please don’t cry,” for the estimable young woman was in tears, and mentally reviling her preceptors. “How can I help feeling terribly, Patience? You break my heart.” “I’m sorry, dear Miss Galpin.” “Patience, don’t you love God?” “No, ma’am, not particularly. Leastways, I’ve never thought much about it.” “You little heathen!” “No, ma’am, I’m not. My father was very religious. But please don’t talk religion to me.”