"You told me my father was dead. Where is he--who is he?" "I will never tell you, Don," said she steadily, "not so long as you live will I tell you. I have never told anyone on earth, and I never will." "Then how do they know--then why should that man say what he did?" "They know--about you--that--that you happened--that's all. They thought you died as a child, a baby--we sent you away. They don't know who it was--your father--I couldn't have lived here if anyone had known--that was my secret--my one secret--and I will keep it all my life. But here are you, my boy! I will not say I am sorry--I will never say that again! I am glad--I'm glad for anything that's given me _you_! And you fought for me--the first time anyone ever did, Don." He was turning away from her now slowly, and she followed after him, agonized. "It wasn't _your_ fault, Don!" said she. "Try to remember that always. Haven't I taken it up with God--there on my knees?" She pointed to the little room where the corner of the white bed showed. "On my knees!" She followed him as he still walked away. "Oh, Don," she cried, "what do you mean, and what are you going to do?" "I'm going to try to forget everything of all my life. God! if I could undo it--if I could forget how I got my education," said he. "Tell me, didn't he help at all--did you, all alone, bring me up, far away, never seeing me, educating me, keeping me--taking care of me--didn't he, my father, do anything at all--for you?" "No, I did it--or at least half of it." "And who the other half?" "Never mind, Don, never mind." She patted eagerly on the lapel of his coat, which once more she had caught and was fingering. "Oh, this was to have been my very happiest day--I have been living and working for this all these long, long years--for the day when I'd see you. Let me have a little of it, can't you, Don? If you should forsake me now, I will know that God has; and then I'll know I never had a chance." Quickly he laid a hand upon her shoulder. "No, I'll wait." "What do you mean?" she asked. "What is it that you will do?" "Find out who he was," said he, his face haggard. "You will never do that, Don." "Oh, yes. And when I do----" "What then?" "I'll kill him, probably. At least I'll choke this lie or this truth, whichever it is, down the throats of this town. God! I'm _filius nullius_! I'm the son of no man! I'm worse. I'm a loafer. I've been supported by a woman--my own mother, who had so little, who was left alone--oh, God! God!" "Don," she cried out now. "Don, I'd died if I could have kept it from you. Oh, my son--my son!" CHAPTER III TWO MOTHERS The young man stood motionless, facing the white-faced woman who had pronounced his fate for him. Happily it chanced that there came interruption, for a moment relieving both of the necessity of speech.