her daughter what she _ought_ to
know. There's always been a shadow between most mothers and daughters.
And in these days of jazz it has become a wall. Perhaps that's why
girls don't confide in their mothers.... Mrs. Bell, I considered it my
duty to acquaint you with the truth about these verses and notes, and
what they imply. Would you care to read some of them?"

"Thank you, but they wouldn't interest me in the least," replied Mrs.
Bell, coldly. "I wouldn't insult Bessy or her girl friends. I imagine
it's all some risque suggestion overheard and made much of or a few
verses mischievously plagiarized. I'm no prude, Miss Hill. I know
enough not to be strict, which is apparently the fault of the school
system. As for my own daughter I understand her perfectly and trust
her implicitly. I know the blood in her. And I shall remove her from
public school and place her in a private institution under a tutor,
where she'll no longer be exposed to contaminating influences.... I
thank you for your intention, which I'm sure is kind--and, will you
please excuse me? I must dress for my bridge party. Good afternoon,
Miss Hill."

The schoolteacher plodded homeward, her eyes downcast and sad. The
snub given her by the mother had not hurt her as had the failure to
help the daughter.

"I knew it--I knew it. I'll never try again. That woman's mind is a
wilderness where her girl is concerned. How brainless these mothers
are!... Yet if I'd ever had a girl--I wonder--would I have been blind?
One's own blood--that must be the reason. Pride. Could I have believed
of _my_ girl what I admitted of hers? Perhaps not till too late. That
would be so human. But, oh! the mystery--the sadness of it--the
fatality!"

Rose Clymer left the High School with the settled, indifferent
bitterness of one used to trouble. Every desire she followed, turn
what way she would, every impulse reaching to grasp some girlish gleam
of happiness, resulted in the inevitable rebuke. And this time it had
been disgrace. But Rose felt she did not care if she could only
deceive her father. No cheerful task was it to face him. Shivering at
the thought she resolved to elude the punishment he was sure to
inflict if he learned why she had been expelled.

She had no twinge of conscience. She was used to slights and
unkindness, and did not now reflect upon the justice of her dismissal.
What little pleasure she got came from friendships with boys, and
these her father had forbi