s intense
effort to forget the awful past, her name as well as her madness must be
forgotten.

He had no wish to carry on this subject of conversation, for it betrayed
an internal weakness which he hated. With forced determination, and a
ludicrous lift of his eyebrows, he said,

"Cecilia is dead, and her silly superstition is dead also. From now on,
Dad, we're going to enjoy life as we should. Bygones are really bygones
in this case."

Doctor Duryea closed his eyes slowly, as though an exquisite pain had
gone through him.

"Then you have no indignation?" he questioned. "You have none of your
aunt's hatred?"

"Indignation? Hatred?" Arthur laughed aloud. "Ever since I was twelve
years old I have disbelieved Cecilia's stories. I have known that those
horrible things were impossible, that they belonged to the ancient
category of mythology and tradition. How, then, can I be indignant, and
how can I hate you? How can I do anything but recognize Cecilia for what
she was--a mean, frustrated woman, cursed with an insane grudge against
you and your family? I tell you, Dad, that nothing she has ever said can
possibly come between us again."

Henry Duryea nodded his head. His lips were tight together, and the
muscles in his throat held back a cry. In that same soft tone of defense
he spoke further, doubting words.

"Are you so sure of your subconscious mind, Arthur? Can you be so
certain that you are free from all suspicion, however vague? Is there
not a lingering premonition--a premonition which warns of peril?"

"No, Dad--no!" Arthur shot to his feet. "I don't believe it. I've never
believed it. I know, as any sane man would know, that you are neither a
vampire nor a murderer. You know it, too; and Cecilia knew it, only she
was mad.

"That family rot is dispelled, Father. This is a civilized century.
Belief in vampirism is sheer lunacy. Wh-why, it's too absurd even to
think about!"

"You have the enthusiasm of youth," said his father, in a rather tired
voice. "But have you not heard the legend?"

Arthur stepped back instinctively. He moistened his lips, for their
dryness might crack them. "The--legend?"

He said the word in a curious hush of awed softness, as he had heard his
Aunt Cecilia say it many times before.

"That awful legend that you----"

"That I _eat_ my children?"

"Oh, God, Father!" Arthur went to his knees as a cry burst through his
lips. "Dad, that--that's ghastly! We must forget Cecilia's ravi