own.

She felt, however, that her heart, if not her will, was weak toward Owen
Clancy. In him had once centred the hope of her life, and from him she now
feared a wound that could never heal.

She underrated his affection as he did hers. He felt that she should throw
off the incubus of the past for his sake; she believed that any depth of
love on his part should render impossible all intercourse with the North
beyond what was strictly necessary for the transaction of business. In
order to soften her prejudices, he had told her of his social experiences
in New York, and, as a result, had seen her face hardened against him....
She had no words of bitter scorn such as her aunt had indulged in when
learning of the fact. She had only thought in sorrow that since he was
"capable of accepting hospitality from the people who had murdered her
kindred and blighted the South, there was an impassable gulf between
them."

Now, however, the imperative questions of bread and shelter were
uppermost. She believed that Clancy could and would solve these questions
at once if permitted, and it was characteristic of her pride and what she
regarded as her loyalty, that she never once allowed herself to think of
this alternative. Yet what could she and her aunt do? They were in the
pathetic position of gentlewomen compelled to face the world with
unskilled hands. This is bad enough at best, but far worse when hands are
half paralyzed by pride and timidity as well as ignorance. The desperate
truth, however, stared them in the face. Do something they must, and that
speedily.

They were contemplating the future in a hopeless sort of dread and