“Roscoe,” she whispered, “I know him. I have met him before.” “Know him! You have met Mr. Colton--before? Where?” “At our home in the old days. He came there once with--with your father. He was our guest at dinner.” I could scarcely believe it. Then, as the thought of what this might mean flashed to my mind, I asked anxiously: “Did he know you, do you think?” “No, I am sure he did not. We met but once and I have,” with a little sigh, “changed since then. But I recognized him. The name of Colton was familiar to me when you first mentioned it, some time ago, but I did not remember where I had heard it. Of course, I did not connect this Mr. Colton with--that one.” I frowned. This complicated matters still more, and further complications were superfluous. “And, knowing this, knowing that he might recognize you at any time, you urged me to accept his offer,” I said, reproachfully. “Mother!” “Yes.” “Mother, how can you? Would you have me go to New York and enter a banking house where, any hour of any day, I might be recognized by some of the men I once knew? Where I might expect at any moment to be called by my real name? How can you?” She gazed at me earnestly. “Why not tell him, Roscoe?” she asked. I stared at her, aghast. “Tell him!” I repeated. “Tell him who I am? Tell him our story, the story that--Mother, are you crazy?” “No. I believe I am sane, at least. I have been thinking a great deal of late. As I have been growing stronger I have been thinking more and more and I am not sure that you and I have been right in hiding here as we have done. It was all my fault, I know, but I was weak and--and I dreaded all the gossip and scandal. But, Boy, it was a mistake. After all, we have done no wrong, you and I--we, personally, have nothing to be ashamed of. Why not end all this? Go to Mr. Colton, tell him who you are, tell him our story; then, if he still wants you--” I interrupted. “No, Mother,” I said, “no, no! It is impossible. Even if he knew, and it made no difference, I could not do it. I may go away! I may feel that I must go, if you are well enough for me to leave you, but I can not go with him. I ought not to see him again. I must not see HER. . . . . Oh, don't you understand? Mother, I--I--” She understood. I had seized her hand and now she stroked it gently with her own. “So it is true,” she said, quietly. “You love her, Roscoe.” “Yes! yes! yes!” I answered, desperately. “Oh, don't speak of it, Mother! I am insane, I think.” “Does she care for you, Boy? Have you spoken to her?” “MOTHER! Is it likely?” “But I think she does care, Roscoe. I think she does. She must.” This was so characteristic that, although I was in anything but a laughing mood, I could not help smiling.