She was gone for several minutes and Victor heard her in friendly conversation with a pleasant male voice. Some way this added to his anger and disgust. She came back with a letter in her hand which she began at once to open. "It is from Louise, I mean Mrs. Joyce." She read it through with smiling face, then said, "Victor, you must be nice to Louise, she has done _everything_ for us." This brought him to his feet. "I understand all that now. It is _her_ money I've been living on--I won't touch another cent that comes from her. Understand that! I won't eat another dinner that she pays for." "Why, Victor, you should not feel that way! What has she done to make you bitter?" "Nothing. I refuse to live on her charity, that's all, and I want you to find out just how much I owe her--how much _you_ owe her--for I intend to pay her back every dollar with interest." "But she considers I've already paid her. She feels that I have always given her bounteous return for all her aid." "I don't figure it that way," he said. "She's just amusing herself--" She interrupted. "Listen to what she says." She read: "'I want to tell you how much I like your son. He is so vivid and so powerful. I'm sorry he is to miss his degree. Can't you persuade him to go back? I'll be glad to advance what is necessary--'" "There it is, you see! There's the rich lady helping a poor relation." "Wait, son!" she pleaded, and read on. "'I feel that I owe you ten times what you've permitted me to do for you.'" "That's all very nice of her, mother, but I won't have any more of it." He pounded out the sentence with his fist. She looked up at him with mingled fear and pride. "You are exactly like your father as you say that," she declared. "Oh, Victor, my son! If _you_ leave me in anger I shall be desolate indeed. I can't live without you. Please believe in me--and love me--for you're all I have on this earth." His anger died away. He saw her again as she really was, a pale, devoted little saint, with troubled brow and quivering lips, one who had shed her very life-blood for him--to doubt her became a monstrous cruelty. He put his arms about her and hugged her close. "I didn't mean to hurt you, mother--but your world is so strange to me. I'll stay, I'll do the best I can here; only don't work this slate trick any more. Don't sit for any one but me. Will you promise that?" "May I not sit for Louise?" "Not without me." "I dare not promise, Victor. Father may insist. If he does _not_ insist I will do as you wish. I will give it up." He kissed her. "Dear little mother, you sha'n't live alone any more, and you shall soon have a home that is worthy of you." She was weeping, and a big lump in his own throat made speech difficult. To cover his emotion he slangily said: "Well, now, it's me to the marts of trade. Perhaps I'll fool The Voices yet." IV VICTOR THROWS DOWN THE ALTAR