"So now you have it." He heard her voice trailing on somewhere at a distance which seemed immeasurable. "You owe your life not to one woman, but to two, after all. Now you know why I called you Dieudonne. God sent you to me. As I have known how, I have resolved to pay my debt to God--for you. I want to pity, not hate. I want to be grateful. I want to be fair, if I can learn how." Aurora spoke no more for some moments, nor did her son. "We two talked it all over between us," said she after a time. "She asked me then, once, who was your father--Julia did. I said he was poor. I told her never to ask me again. She never has. Oh, a good woman, Julia Delafield--fine, fine as the Lord ever made! "But she knew--we both knew--that I did not have the means of bringing you up. We put our hearts together--to own you. We put our little purses together--to bring you up. She took you away from me, pretty soon. She sent you to some of her people, very distant relatives. They were poor, too, but they took you in and they never knew--they died, both of them, who took you in. "Then for a time we sent you to an institution for orphans. But we told everybody here that you had died. I told him so--your--your father--and I forbade him ever to speak to me again. I told you he was dead. I told him you were dead. He _is_ dead. So are _you_ dead. But all the dead have come to life. The lost is found. Oh, Don, Don, the lost is found! I've found so much today--so much, so much. You're my boy, my own boy. A man!" He sat mute. At length she went on. "We schemed and saved and contrived, all the little ways that we could to save our money--we have both done that all our lives for you. We wanted to educate you, your mothers did. And oh! above all things we wanted the secret kept. I did the best I knew. They all thought you died. I didn't want you to come here--it was Miss Julia. I didn't know you were coming till you wired. I was going to tell you not to come up--even from the depot. But you got in the bus. I was delayed there in the square by those men. And then all this happened. And after twenty years!" She sat silent, using all her splendid command of her own soul to still the stubborn fluttering in her throat. Dieudonne Lane looked everywhere but at her. "Mother," said he at length, "did you--did you ever--love him?" His own face flushed at the cruelty of this question, too late, after the words were gone. He saw her wince. "I don't know, Don," said she, simply. "It happened. It couldn't again. You don't know about women. Seal your lips now, as mine are sealed. Never again a question such as that to me." The sight of her suffering at his own words stirred the elemental rage in his heart. "Tell me," he demanded again and again. "Who was he? Is that the man? I begin to see--I'd kill him if I knew for sure." She only shook her head. "But you must!" said he at last. "You are cruel. You don't know."