Isabel sat silent a moment, shocked by her reception. She had not realized that she was no longer the idol of that household and of its central mind; and we are all loath to give up faith in our being loved still, where we have been loved ever. She was not aware that since she had left home she had been disinherited. She would not have cared had she known; but she was now facing what was involved in the disinheritance--dislike; and in the beginning of dislike there was the ending of the old awe with which the grandmother had once regarded the grandchild. But she came quickly back to the grave matter uppermost in her mind. "Grandmother," she said, "I received a few days ago a letter from Kate Osborn. In it she told me that there were stories in circulation about Rowan. I have come home to find out what these stories are. On the way from the station I stopped at Mrs. Osborn's, and she told me. Grandmother, this is your work." Mrs. Conyers pushed down the thumb of her glove. "Have I denied it? But why do you attempt to deny that it is also your work?" Isabel sat regarding her with speechless, deepening horror. She was not prepared for this revelation. Mrs. Conyers did not wait, but pressed on with a certain debonair enjoyment of her advantage. "You refused to recognize my right to understand a matter that affected me and affected other members of the family as well as yourself. You showed no regard for the love I had cherished for you many a year. You put me aside as though I had no claim upon your confidence--I believe you said I was not worthy of it; but my memory is failing--perhaps I wrong you." "It is _true_!" said Isabel, with triumphant joy in reaffirming it on present grounds. "It is _true_!"