"Oh, yes, I know it's all my own fault," cut in Burke crisply. "You can't tell me anything new on that score, that I haven't told myself. Yes, and I know I haven't even been willing to have her name spoken," he went on recklessly, answering the amazement in the doctor's face. "For that matter, I don't know why I'm talking like this now--unless it's because I've always said to you more than I've said to any one else--except dad--about Helen. And now, after being such a cad, it seems almost--due to her that I should say--something. Besides, doesn't somebody say somewhere that confession is good for the soul?" There was a quizzical smile on his lips, but there was no smile in his eyes. The doctor nodded dumbly. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he dared not open his lips. But, terrified at the long silence that followed, he finally ventured unsteadily:-- "But why--this sudden change, Burke?" "It's not so sudden as you think." Burke's eyes, gloomily fixed on the opposite wall, did not turn as he spoke. "It's been coming gradually for a long time. I can see that now. Still, the real eye-opener finally came from--mother." "_Your--mother!_" "Yes, her diary--or, rather, diaries. I found them a month ago among father's things. I can't tell you what was in them. I wouldn't, of course, if I could. They're too--sacred. Perhaps you think even I should not have read them; perhaps I shouldn't. But I did, and I'm glad I did; and I believe she'd have wanted me to. "Of course, at first, when I picked one of them up, I didn't know what it was. Then I saw my name, and I read--page after page. I was a baby--her baby. Gleason, can you imagine what it would be to look deep down into the soul of a good woman and read there all her love, hopes, prayers, and ambitions for her boy--and then suddenly realize that you yourself were that boy?" There was no answer; and Burke, evidently expecting none, went on with the rush of abandonment that told of words suddenly freed from long restraint.