And now a drunken tongue had recalled sharply, unforgivably, unescapably, that past which had so long lain buried--a past to which neither of them ever referred. In all these years time had been doing what it could to repair what had been. Time wreathes the broken tree with vines to bind up its wounds. It covers the scarred earth with grasses presently. In all these years some men had died, others had left the village. Certain old women, poisonous of heart, also had died, and so the better for all concerned. Other women mayhap had their sacrifices--and their secrets. But as for Aurora Lane, at least she had won and held one friend. And so they two had had between them a child, a son, a man. One had gathered of the philosophy of life, of the world's great minds. The other had brought into the partnership the great equipment with which Nature forever defies all law and all philosophy save her own. Now, product of their twenty years of friendship, here he stood, tall and strong--Don Lane, their boy, blood on his hand because of that truth which he swiftly--too swiftly--had declared to be a lie; and which was no lie but the very truth. But Don Lane still was ignorant of the closeness of truth of his last remark. He only put such face now on all this as he might. "Miss Julia," said he lamely, and giving her instinctively the title which the town gave her, "I know you have been good to my mother." "Why, no, I haven't, Don," said she, "not at all. I've been so busy I have hardly seen your mother for a month or so. But we have kept track of you--why, Don, I've got your class records, every one. You don't know how I got them? Isn't it true, Aurie?" "I don't know what I would ever have done without her," said Aurora Lane slowly. Don Lane laughed suddenly. "Why," said he, "it's almost as if I had _two_ mothers, isn't it?" Both women grew red now, and poor Don, knowing little as he did, grew red as well. "But what's the matter with your hand, Don--you've cut yourself! I've told your mother she ought to fix that gate-latch." Don looked once more at his wounded hand, and sought to cover the blood-stain with his kerchief. He saw that Miss Julia had heard nothing of the affair of a few moments earlier in the public square. "Why, that's nothing," he mumbled. This was too much for the straightforward nature of Aurora Lane, and rapidly as she might she gave some account to Miss Julia of these late events. She told all--except the basic and essential truth. A sad shame held her back from talking even before Miss Julia of the fact that her boy now knew he was the child of shame itself. "That's too bad," said Julia Delafield slowly, gravely, as she heard the half news. "I'm awfully sorry--I'm awfully sorry for your mother, Don. You fought? My! I wish I had been there to see it." Miss Julia's face flushed once more, indicative of the heroic soul which lay in her own misshapen body.