in Electra's striving and abortive life--the emulation that
reached so far and met the mists and vapors at the end. "But there was
one thing I did not want," Rose cried--"their money. I never thought of
it. I only thought how I might come here for a little and be at peace,
away from my father. Then when Electra hated me, I had to stay, I had to
fight it out. Why? I don't know. I had to. But now it's all different."

"How is it different?"

"Because she has accepted me."

"But you wanted her to accept you."

"Ah, yes, on my own word! I believe I had it in my mind to tell her the
next minute,--to throw myself on her mercy, the mercy of the goddess,
and beg her to see me as I was, all wrong, but innocent. It is innocent
to have meant no wrong. But when she met me like an enemy, I had to
fight."

"And now she has accepted you."

"Yes." The assent was bitter. "On my father's word."

"His word?"

"Yes. He stands by me. He confirms me. She asked him if I had been
married to her brother. 'Yes,' said my father."

"Why?"

"The money. Always that--money, position, a pressure here, a pull
there."

"Then"--his tone seemed to demand her actual meaning--"your case is won.
Electra owns you."

She was on her feet gripping the back of her chair with both hands. The
rough wood hurt her and she held it tighter.

"Range myself with him--my father? Sell myself in his company? No! When
I was fighting before, it was from bravado, pride, mean pride, the
necessity of the fight. But now, when he confirms me--no! no! no!"

"We must tell the truth," she heard Osmond murmuring to himself.

To her also it looked not only necessary but beautiful. There were many
things she wanted to say to him at that moment, and, as she suddenly
saw, they were all in condonation of herself. Yet the passionate justice
in her flamed higher as she remembered again that it was true that
others had marked out her way for her. When she walked in it, it had
been with an exalted sense that it was the one way to go.

"I cannot understand about the truth," she said. "I can't, even now."

"What about it?"

"Once it seemed as if there were different kinds. He told me so--my
father. He always said there was the higher truth, and that almost
nobody could understand. Then there were facts. What were facts? he
asked. Often worse than lies."

"I don't know," said Osmond. Whatever he might say, he was afraid of
hurting her. It seemed impossible to express hims