“You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why. When she was beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father’s family. He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love her though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred or contempt.” The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed Christie too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart’s core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many never see or wilfully deny,—the awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman’s soul forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins. Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke: “If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will not, and till she does, God has forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you look in, you’ll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me.” “Don’t speak, don’t think of them! Don’t talk any more; let me do something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this,” cried Christie, panic-stricken at the picture Helen’s words had conjured up. “I must go on! There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and you’ll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three years ago my father died, and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy!” Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no words to tell the story of a broken heart.