"I promised Dory I would. I've spent some of the money--about fifteen hundred dollars--You see, the house was more expensive than I thought. But everything's paid up now." "I don't need it, and don't want it," said Ellen. "And I won't take it!" "I promised Dory I would--before we were married. He thinks I've done it. I've let him think so. And--lately--I've been having a sort of house cleaning--straightening things up--and I straightened that up, too." Ellen Ranger understood. A long pause, during which she looked lovingly at her daughter's beautiful face. At last she said: "No, there don't seem to be no other way out of it." Then, anxiously, "You ain't written Dory what you've done?" "No," replied Del. "Not yet." "Not never!" exclaimed her mother. "That's one of the things a body mustn't ever tell anyone. You did wrong; you've done right--and it's all settled and over. He'd probably understand if you told him. But he'd never quite trust you the same again--that's human nature." "But _you'd_ trust me," objected Del. "I'm older'n Dory," replied her mother; "and, besides, I ain't your husband. There's no end of husbands and wives that get into hot water through telling, where it don't do any earthly good and makes the other one uneasy and unhappy." Adelaide reflected. "It _is_ better not to tell him," she concluded. Ellen was relieved. "That's common sense," said she. "And you can't use too much common sense in marriage. The woman's got to have it, for the men never do where women are concerned." She reflected a few minutes, then, after a keen glance at her daughter and away, she said with an appearance of impersonality that evidenced diplomatic skill of no mean order: "And there's this habit the women are getting nowadays of always peeping into their heads and hearts to see what's going on. How can they expect the cake to bake right if they're first at the fire door, then at the oven door, openin' and shuttin' 'em, peepin' and pokin' and tastin'--that's what _I'd_ like to know." Adelaide looked at her mother's apparently unconscious face in surprise and admiration. "What a sensible, wonderful woman you are, Ellen Ranger!" she exclaimed, giving her mother the sisterly name she always gave her when she felt a particular delight in the bond between them. And half to herself, yet so that her mother heard, she added: "And what a fool your daughter has been!" "Nobody's born wise," said Ellen, "and mighty few takes the trouble to learn."