Of everything we talked, even of Breckenridge--of Breckenridge as a baby, a boy, a college-man. She explained his inheritance, his weaknesses, his virtues. She spoke of Gale Oliphant and the interrupted marriage. Once--once only--she referred to me. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," she began one day with a sigh, "'the best-laid plans of mice and men'----Oh, dear, oh, dear! Sometimes I think I have made a great many mistakes in my life. For instance, my son--this Breckenridge I talk so much about--he, well, he became very fond of some one I opposed. A nice girl--a girl of high principles. Oh, yes. But not the girl whom his mother had happened to select for him. No. His mother wished him to marry his second cousin--this Gale you've heard me speak of--Gale Oliphant. Breckenridge was fond of her--always had been. She was worth millions, _millions_! "You see, a short time before Breckenridge formed the attachment for the young lady with the high principles, his mother's lawyer had persuaded her into a most precarious investment. For two years, a large part of her fortune trembled uncertainly on the edge of a precipice. She believed that her son required less a girl with high principles of living, than a girl with principles represented by quarterly dividends. Breckenridge would not make a success as a man without means. But as I said--'the best-laid plans of mice and men!' "Oh, well, perhaps you read the story. Most unfortunate. It was in the papers. It nearly broke me. A law-suit on the eve of my son's marriage to Miss Gale Oliphant. After I had successfully brought the affair to the desired climax too! Oh, most unfortunate! "The suit was brought by a creature who had no claims. Put up to it by unscrupulous lawyers of no repute. We paid the money that she asked to hush up the notoriety of the affair, but not before the mischief of breaking off the relations with Miss Oliphant had been nicely accomplished. That was over a year ago. My investments have proved successful. Gale is married to a man twice her age. Breckenridge is still in England." "And what's become of the girl you didn't approve of?" I asked lightly, threading my needle. I was sewing that day. "The girl with the high principles?" Mrs. Sewall queried. "I don't know," she said distinctly, slowly. "I don't know, I wish I did. If you should ever run across her, tell her to come and make herself known to me, please. I've something to say." "I will," I said, carefully drawing the thread through my needle and making a knot. "If I ever run across her. I doubt if I do. I've learned that _that_ girl has gone on a long journey to a new and engrossing country." "Oh? I must send a message to her somehow then. Come here, my dear. Come here. I've got my glasses caught." I laid down my work and crossed over to Mrs. Sewall. It was true. The chain was in a knot. I untangled it.