write this letter. You don't know how
hard it is for me--but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very
foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in
trying to help you both. And now, what _have_ I done to you? There
was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business,
but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely _sure_."

All this was perfect Greek to Nancy, and she saw that her poor mother
had evidently written the letter in an almost desperate state of mind.
After two pages of self-reproach, it was gradually made clear to Nancy
that Mrs. Prescott had made an unfortunate investment of her little
capital, though the extent of the loss Mrs. Prescott did not explain.
In an effort to increase their meagre income, she had taken all her
money, or part of it, and bought stock in some oil interest in Texas.
A Western promoter had assured her that it was the opportunity of a
lifetime, he himself being either an unconscionable fraud or a
self-deceiving optimist. Nancy had not the remotest idea when her
mother had made the investment, but evidently the news of its complete
failure had just reached her, and it was equally evident that it had
been a total loss.

Utter bewilderment confused Nancy's thoughts, so that at first she
could hardly realize all that the misfortune might mean; she felt no
terror; only a wave of pity and tenderness for her mother, whose misery
was so pitifully expressed in the letter. Then she thought of Alma.
Misfortune of that kind would hit both of them harder than herself,
because they had a greater need for luxury and pleasure than she.
There was nothing terrible to her in the thought of work, and of
difficulties to be overcome, because, in her quiet way, she had a great
wealth of self-confidence, the ardent ambition of youth, and that zest
for struggle which is characteristic of strong natures. Alma and her
mother, on the other hand, saw nothing but the wretchedness of thwarted
hopes in such an existence of poverty and work. They were created for
ease and luxury, just as the hollyhock is made to bloom against the
sunny garden wall. Poor Mrs. Prescott, who had dreamed such happy
fairy tales for her daughters, and who, with her own hands, as it were,
had so innocently destroyed the little they possessed; and Alma, so
thirsty for pleasure and beauty,--it was only on their account that
Nancy suffered. She understood that it would be impossible fo