“I faced the task of working my way through college with a thankful heart, for though I pretended that I did not care, it would have been a terrible thing to have given up my life’s ambition.  The thought of Adela trudging to the office hurt—­it was the touch of the spur.  I needn’t tell you, you can guess how I worked!  People were kind.  One summer, old Doctor Inglis, whose amiable hobby it was to help young medical students, engaged me for the holidays as his chauffeur and general helper at a wage which would see me through my next term.  It seemed an unusual piece of luck, for he lived only twenty miles from my mother’s home and an electric tram connected the towns.  One night I went with Adela to a Church Social—­of all places—­and that is where the story really begins, for it was at the Social that I met Molly Weston.  It seemed the most casual of all accidents, for you can imagine that I did not frequent churches in those days, and Molly, too, had come there by chance.  She was dressed in pink, her cheeks were pink, she wore a pink rose in her hair.  She was the prettiest little fairy that ever smiled and pouted her way into a boy’s heart.  Before I left her I was madly in love—­a boy’s first headlong passion.  Adela was amazed, teased me in her elderly sister way but never for a moment took it seriously.  Molly was a mere bird of passage, an American girl staying with friends for a brief time, therefore my infatuation was a humorous thing.  But it was not so simple as that.  Molly stayed on, Dr. Inglis was indulgent, we met continually.  If her friends knew of it they did not care.  It was just a flirtation of their pretty guest’s.  As a serious factor I was quite beneath the horizon, a young fellow working his way through college, and with, later on, a mother and sister to support.

“Molly understood the situation.  At least she knew all the facts.  I doubt if she ever understood them.  She was one of those helpless, clinging girls who never seem to understand anything clearly.  I remember well how I used to agonise in explanation, trying to make her see our difficulties and to face them with me.  But when I had talked myself into helpless silence she would ruffle my hair and say, ’But you really do love me, don’t you, Harry?’ or ’I don’t care what we have to do, so long as mother doesn’t know.’

“I soon found out that her one strong emotion was fear of her mother.  She was fond of her but she feared her as weak natures fear the strong, especially when bound to them by ties of blood.  I was allowed to see her photograph—­the picture of a grim hard face instinct with an almost terrible strength.  No wonder my pretty Molly was her slave.  One would have deemed it impossible that they were mother and daughter.  Molly, it appears, was like her father, and he, poor man, had been long dead.  Molly would do anything, promise anything, if only her mother might not know.  She had not the faintest scruple in deceiving her, but this I laid, and still lay, to the strength of her love for me.