“It was a long time ago. He knew your father up in the mines some time in the fifties, and he said he admired him considerably. Then he went on and asked me a lot of questions about you, your circumstances, where you lived and if you were as good-looking as your father. He said he’d heard you were an accomplished young lady. Then I saw my cue and I said, as carelessly as you please, that Miss Moreau had a fine voice and plenty of musical ability, but unfortunately was not able to cultivate either, because her means were small, and it was a great pity some one with money didn’t help her. I says--just as casual as could be--it’s a great shame to see a voice like that lying idle for want of tuition.” “What did he say then?” said Mariposa. “Well, that’s the point I’m working up to. He thought a while, asked a few more questions, and then said: ‘I’d like to meet the young lady and hear her sing. It goes against me to have Dan Moreau’s daughter lack for anything. Her father’d have left a fortune if he hadn’t been a man that thought of every one else before himself.’” “That was father exactly. He must have known him well. Mother, isn’t it odd he never spoke of him? What did you say then?” “I? Why, of course, I saw my opening and jumped in. I said, ‘Well, I guess I can arrange for you to meet Miss Moreau at my rooms. I see her twice a week when she comes to give Edna her piano lesson. I’ll ask her when she can come, and let you know and then she’ll sing for you.’ He was pleased, he was real pleased, and said he’d come whenever I said. And now, young woman,” laying a large white-gloved hand on Mariposa’s knee, “that ought to be the beginning of a career for you!” “Good gracious!” said Mariposa, whose cheeks were crimson, “I never heard anything so exciting in my life, and we were just talking about it. I’ll probably sing like a dog baying the moon.” “Don’t you talk that way. You’ll sing your best. And he’s not a man that you wouldn’t like Mariposa to meet”--turning to the pale and silent Lucy. “Whatever other faults he’s had he’s always been a straight man with women. There’s never been that sort of scandal about Jake Shackleton. There’s a story you’ve probably heard, that he was originally a Mormon. I don’t believe much in that myself. He had, anyway, only one wife when he entered California, and she’s been his wife ever since, and she ain’t the kind to have stood any nonsense of the Mormon sort.” Lucy gave a sudden gasping breath and sat up. The light of the gray afternoon was dying outside, and by the glow of the fire her unusual pallor was not noticeable. “It was very good of you,” she said. “Mariposa will be glad to go.” “And you’ll come, too?” said Mrs. Willers. “He asked about you.” “Did he say he’d ever known me?” said Lucy, quietly. “No--not exactly that. No, I don’t believe he said that. But he was interested in you as the wife of the man he’d known so long ago.”