As for Miss Julia, she was still in ignorance of the late events in the public square, because she had come directly across to Aurora Lane's house after the closing of her own duties at the library this Saturday afternoon, when most of her own patrons were disposed for the open than for books. "Yes, Don," said she again, "you are fine!" Her eyes were all alight with genuine pride in him. "I'm so glad after all you came to see us before you went on West--even when I told you you mustn't! Oh, believe me, your mother scolded me! But I presume you are in a hurry to get away? And you've grown up! After all, twenty years is only a little time. Must you be in a hurry to leave us?" "I ought not to be," said he, smiling pleasantly after all. "Surely I ought to come and see you two good partners first--I could not go away without that. Oh, mother has told me about you--or at least I'm sure she was just going to when you came in. Strange--I've got to get acquainted with my mother--and you. But I know you--you're two good partners, that's what you are--two good scouts together--isn't it true?" Miss Julia flushed brightly. His chance word had gone passing close to the truth, but he did not know the truth. Don Lane did not know that here sat almost the only woman friend Aurora Lane could claim in all Spring Valley. Miss Julia in fact was silent partner in this very millinery shop--and silent partner in yet other affairs of which Don Lane was yet to learn. This was a great day for Miss Julia as well as for Don's mother. Time and again these two women had sat in this very room and planned for this homecoming of the boy--this boy--time and again planned, and then agreed he must not come--their son. For--yes--they _both_ called him son! If Don Lane, Dieudonne Lane, was _filius nullius_, at least he might boast two mothers. How came this to pass? One would need to go back into the story of Miss Julia's life as well as that of Aurora Lane. She had been lame from birth, hopelessly so, disfiguringly so. Yet callous nature had been kind to her, had been compassionate. It gave to her a face of wondrous sweetness, a heart of wondrous softness thereto. Hopeless and resigned, yet never pathetic and never seeking pity, no living soul had ever heard an unkind or impatient word from Julia Delafield's lips, not in all her life, even when she was a child. She had suffered, yes. The story of that was written on her face--she knew she might not hope--and yet she hoped.