door closed behind him.

"Roscoe," said Mother, quickly, "come here."

I turned toward her. She was looking at me with a strange expression.

"What is it, Mother?" I asked, anxiously.

"Roscoe," she whispered, "I know him. I have met him before."

"Know him! You have met Mr. Colton--before? Where?"

"At our home in the old days. He came there once with--with your father.
He was our guest at dinner."

I could scarcely believe it. Then, as the thought of what this might
mean flashed to my mind, I asked anxiously:

"Did he know you, do you think?"

"No, I am sure he did not. We met but once and I have," with a little
sigh, "changed since then. But I recognized him. The name of Colton was
familiar to me when you first mentioned it, some time ago, but I did
not remember where I had heard it. Of course, I did not connect this Mr.
Colton with--that one."

I frowned. This complicated matters still more, and further
complications were superfluous.

"And, knowing this, knowing that he might recognize you at any time, you
urged me to accept his offer," I said, reproachfully. "Mother!"

"Yes."

"Mother, how can you? Would you have me go to New York and enter a
banking house where, any hour of any day, I might be recognized by some
of the men I once knew? Where I might expect at any moment to be called
by my real name? How can you?"

She gazed at me earnestly. "Why not tell him, Roscoe?" she asked.

I stared at her, aghast. "Tell him!" I repeated. "Tell him who I am?
Tell him our story, the story that--Mother, are you crazy?"

"No. I believe I am sane, at least. I have been thinking a great deal of
late. As I have been growing stronger I have been thinking more and more
and I am not sure that you and I have been right in hiding here as
we have done. It was all my fault, I know, but I was weak and--and I
dreaded all the gossip and scandal. But, Boy, it was a mistake. After
all, we have done no wrong, you and I--we, personally, have nothing to
be ashamed of. Why not end all this? Go to Mr. Colton, tell him who you
are, tell him our story; then, if he still wants you--"

I interrupted. "No, Mother," I said, "no, no! It is impossible. Even if
he knew, and it made no difference, I could not do it. I may go away! I
may feel that I must go, if you are well enough for me to leave you, but
I can not go with him. I ought not to see him again. I must not see HER.
. . . . Oh, don't you understand? Mother, I--I--"

She unde