Her lips narrowed tightly. For the first time in her life
Isabella Spencer saw a reflection of herself looking back at her
from her daughter's face--a strange, indefinable resemblance that
was more of soul and spirit than of flesh and blood. In spite of
her anger her heart thrilled to it. As never before, she
realized that this girl was her own and her husband's child, a
living bond between them wherein their conflicting natures
mingled and were reconciled. She realized too, that Rachel, so
long sweetly meek and obedient, meant to have her own way in this
case--and would have it.

"I must say that I can't see why you are so set on having your
father see you married," she said with a bitter sneer. "HE has
never remembered that he is your father. He cares nothing about
you--never did care."

Rachel took no notice of this taunt. It had no power to hurt
her, its venom being neutralized by a secret knowledge of her own
in which her mother had no share.

"Either I shall invite my father to my wedding, or I shall not
have a wedding," she repeated steadily, adopting her mother's own
effective tactics of repetition undistracted by argument.

"Invite him then," snapped Mrs. Spencer, with the ungraceful
anger of a woman, long accustomed to having her own way,
compelled for once to yield. "It'll be like chips in porridge
anyhow--neither good nor harm. He won't come."

Rachel made no response. Now that the battle was over, and the