“You never loved me! You could not have cared for a woman thirteen years older than yourself, and with red hair. You married me for my money, and now you are trying to break my heart so that you may enjoy it without incumbrance!” she would cry out, coarsely; and all his protestations would be useless until she relented of herself, touched by his white face of misery. Then she would atone after her fashion by intervals of almost slavish devotion, and by costly gifts, trying to buy the forgiveness she was ashamed to beg. Norman’s mother knew in her heart that by her ambition and her adroit management she had brought about this misery, but she dared not utter her repentance aloud. She knew that she had to remain perfectly neutral, or her rich daughter-in-law would find means to separate her from the son she idolized. When she had heard Norman’s story, her motherly heart thrilled with indignation at the false and unjust charge brought against her idolized son. Angry words rushed to her lips, but she crowded them back. She must not foment strife between husband and wife. The least she could do to atone for her share in their misery was to act the part of peace-maker. She waited a few moments to quell the indignant words that swelled in her throat, then began to talk to her son in kind and soothing terms, making every excuse that she could for the erring wife. “She was an only daughter. She has been spoiled all her life, and she can not know how her tempers appear to us. We must try to soften her by repeated kindnesses and by continual forgiveness,” she ended. Her son’s eyes flashed darkly under the straight, black brows. “I have already given up to her to the extent of debasing my manhood by almost dog-like humility,” he replied. “‘Forbearance has ceased to be a virtue,’ and the issue now raised between us may become a battle-ground on which her insolent pride of power must be humbled, for I shall never yield.” “The issue?” she repeated. “The child,” he replied. “I do not quite understand,” she said. “I mean that she has vowed that my protégée shall not pass the night beneath this roof. I am determined that Sweetheart shall remain until I restore her to her friends.” The pale determination of his handsome face was so marked that she trembled with dread. “But what if her friends should never be found? What then, Norman?” “She would have to remain my protégée,” he replied, firmly. She trembled at the firmness of his tone. Her prophetic mind saw endless vistas of perplexity and trouble looming dimly in the future. The thought came: “Better, perhaps, if the child had perished with her mother!” Then her heart smote her as a low, grieving sob broke from the little cherub in its sleep. “Heaven forgive me!” Mrs. de Vere muttered to herself humbly. Norman looked at her wistfully, and continued: