en Horatio Milo died (an expert accountant, he had no resistance with
which to combat a sudden illness that was aggravated by a wound
received in the Civil War), Mrs. Milo clung more closely than ever--if
that was possible--to Sue. To the daughter, this was explained by her
mother's pathetic grief; and by her dependence. For Sue was now, all
at once, the breadwinner of the little family.

At this juncture, Mrs. Milo pleaded hard in behalf of an arrangement
for earning that would not take her daughter from her even through a
short business day. Sue met her mother's wishes by setting up an
office in the living-room of their small apartment. Here she took some
dictation--her mother seated close by, busy with her sewing, but not
too busy to be graciousness itself to those men and women who desired
Sue's services. There was copying to be done, too. The girl became a
sort of general secretary, her clients including an author, a college
professor, and a clergyman.

Thus for six years. Then, at thirty years of age, she went to fill the
position at the Rectory. Her father had been a vestryman of the
Church, and she had been christened there--as a small, freckle-faced
girl in pigtails, fresh from a little village in northern New York.

And now, at this day that was so late, Sue knew that between her and
her mother things could never again be as they had been. Their
differences lay deep: and could not be adjusted. Mrs. Milo had always
demanded from her daughter the unquestioning obedience of a child; she
would not--and could not--alter her attitude after so many years.

But there was a reason for their parting that was more powerful than
any other: down from its high pedestal had come the image of Mrs. Milo
that her daughter had so long, and almost blindly, cherished. All at
once, as if indeed her eyes had been suddenly and miraculously opened,
Sue understood all the hypocrisy of her mother's gentleness, the
affection that was only simulated, the smiles that were only muscle
deep.

How it had all happened, Sue as yet scarcely knew. But in effect it
had been like an avalanche--an avalanche that is built up, flake by
flake, over a long period, and then gives way through even so light a
touch as the springing to flight of a mountain bird. The Milo
avalanche--it was made up of countless small tyrannies and scarcely
noticeable acts of selfishness adroitly disguised. But touched into
motion by Mrs. Milo's frank cruelt