“He’ll be good to you,” went on the low, weak voice, interrupted by quick breaths. “I know Jake. He’ll be proud of you. You’re handsome and talented, not weak and poor spirited, as I was. You’re his only legitimate child; the others are not; they were born in California. They’re Bessie’s children, and I was his only real wife. You’ll let him take care of you? Oh, Mariposa, my darling, I’ve told you all this that you might understand and let him take care of you.” She made a last call on her strength and leaned forward. Her dying body was re-vivified; all her mother’s agony of love appeared on her face. In determining to destroy the illusions of her child to secure her future, she had made the one heroic effort of her life. It was done, and for a last moment of relief and triumph she was thrillingly alive. Mariposa, in a spasm of despair, threw herself forward on the bed. “Oh, why did you tell me? Why did you tell me?” she cried. “Why didn’t you let me think it was the way it used to be? Why did you tell me?” Lucy laid her hand on the bowed head. “Because I wanted you to understand and let him be your father.” “My father! That man! Oh, no, no!” “You must promise me. Oh, my beloved child, I couldn’t leave you alone. It seemed as if God had said to me, ‘Die in peace. Her father will care for her.’ I couldn’t go and leave you this way, without a friend. Now I can rest in peace. Promise to let him take care of you. Promise.” “Oh, mother, don’t ask me. What have you just told me? That he sold you to a stranger for a pair of horses, left you to die in a cabin in the mountains! That’s not my father. My father was Dan Moreau. I can do nothing but hate that other man now.” “Don’t blame him, dear, the past is over. Forgive him. Forgive me. If I sinned there were excuses for me. I had suffered too much. I loved too well.” Her voice suddenly hesitated and broke. A gray pallor ran over her face and a look of terror transfixed her eyes. She straightened her arms out toward her daughter. “Promise,” she gasped, “promise.” With a spring Mariposa snatched the drooping body in her arms and cried into the face, settling into cold rigidity: “Yes--yes--I promise! All--anything. Oh, mother, darling, look at me. I promise.” She gently shook the limp form, but it was nerveless, only the head oscillated slightly from side to side. “Mother, look at me,” she cried frantically. “Look at me, not past me. Come back to me. Speak to me, I promise everything.” But there was no response. Lucy lay, limp and white-lipped, her head lolling back from the support of her daughter’s arm. Her strength was exhausted to the last drop. She was unconscious.