of her home, and by giving up the luxuries to which she had been
accustomed from childhood. She even provided for me after her death--not
wealth, but a comfortable amount, sufficient to support me in good
circumstances until I can gain recognition and an income from my work."

Under the lash of his memories, the young man sprang to his feet.

"In God's name, Lagrange, why did not some one tell me? I did not know--I
did not know--I thought--O mother, mother, mother--why did you do it? Why
was I not told? All these years I have lived a selfish fool, and
you--you--I would have given up everything--I would have worked in a
ditch, rather than accept this."

The deep, quiet voice of Conrad Lagrange broke the stillness that followed
the storm of the artist's passionate words. "And that is the answer,
Aaron. She knew, too well, that you would not have accepted her sacrifice,
if you had known. That is why she kept the secret until you had finished
your education. She forbade her friends--she forbade me to interfere. And
don't you see that she was right? Don't you see it? We would have done her
the greatest injustice if we had, against her will, deprived her of this
privilege. Her splendid pride, her high sense of honor, her nobility of
spirit demanded the sacrifice. It was her right. God forgive me--I tried
to make her see it otherwise--but she knew best. She always knew best,
Aaron. Her only hope of regaining for you that self-respect and that
position in life to which you--by right of birth and natural
endowment--are entitled, was in you. The name which she had given to you
could be restored to honor by you only. To train and equip you for your
work, and to enable you, unhampered by need, to gain your footing, was the
determined passion of her life. Her sacrifice, her suffering to that end,
was the only restitution she could make to you for that which your father