"Yes; a child's story," returned her guest, and then the door closed, and the two were again alone. "There is a woman to be loved and honored, if one could only forget the sort of son she has trained," remarked Judithe, thoughtfully, "with my heart I love her, but with my reason I condemn her. Can you comprehend that, Monsieur Loring? I presume not, as you do not interest yourself with hearts." He was still staring at her like a man in a frightened dream; she could see the perspiration standing on his forehead; his lips were twitching horribly. "You understand, of course," she said, continuing her former discussion, "that the daughter in the story is not the lovely lady who is your heiress, and who is called Miss Loring. It is a younger daughter I refer to; she had no surname, because masters do not marry slaves, and her mother was a half Greek octoroon from Florida; her name was Retta Lacaris, and your brother promised her the freedom she never received until death granted her what you could not keep from her; do you remember that mother and child, Monsieur Loring?--the mother who went mad and died, and the child whom you sold to Kenneth McVeigh?--sold as a slave for his bachelor establishment; a slave who would look like a white girl, whom you contracted should have the accomplishments of a white girl, but without a white girl's inconvenient independence, and the power of disposing of herself." "You--you dare to tell me!--you--" He was choking with rage, but she raised her hand for silence, and continued in the same quiet tone: "I have discussed the same affair in the salons of Paris--why not to you? It was in Paris your good friend, Monsieur Larue, placed the girl for the education Kenneth McVeigh paid for. It was also your friend who bribed her to industry by a suggestion that she might gain freedom if her accomplishments warranted it. But you had forgotten, Matthew Loring, that the child of your brother had generations of white blood--of intellectual ancestry back of her. She had heard before leaving your shores the sort of freedom she was intended for, and your school was not a prison strong enough to hold her. She escaped, fled into the country, hid like a criminal in the day, and walked alone at night through an unknown county, a girl of seventeen! She found a friend in an aged woman, to whom she told her story, every word of it, Matthew Loring, and was received into the home as a daughter. That home, all the wealth which made it magnificent, and the title which had once belonged to her benefactress, became the property of your brother's daughter before that daughter was twenty years old. Now, do you comprehend why one woman has crossed the seas to help, if possible, overthrow an institution championed by you? Now do you comprehend my assurance that Captain Monroe is innocent? Now, dare you contest my statement that one of the Loring family is a Federal agent?"