“Physically, I am quite well,” said her mother, only half turning her head.

“Oh, I’m glad....  It’s such a beautiful day.  I hoped you would feel like going out for a drive.”

“I hardly feel like going out—­as yet....  Sit down.”

Cally sat in the chair prescribed by a gesture.  The eyes of the two women met for the first time since they had parted in tears.  And Cally, seeing her mother’s bereaved face, had to crush down a sudden almost overpowering impulse toward explanation, reconciliation at any cost.  However, she did crush it down.  There was nothing to explain, as mamma had pointed out in the midnight.

Mrs. Heth cleared her throat, though her voice seemed sufficiently strong.

“I understood from Flora that you were getting up this morning,” said she, “so this seemed the appropriate time for me to see you, and learn something about your plans, regarding your future.”

“My plans?”

“As you have so completely overthrown your parents’ plans for you, I can only assume that you have others of your own.”

Cally sat with her hands folded in her lap.  A look of curious wistfulness flitted across her face.

“No, I haven’t any special plans.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say so.  You surely do not expect to go on this way the rest of your natural life, do you?”

“I don’t understand, mamma.  Go on in what way?”

“In this way.  In occupying the central position in my home, in allowing your parents to sacrifice their lives to you, in receiving lavish evidences of regard and affection which you evidently have not the slightest wish to return.”

There was a considerable silence.

“I have a sort of plan there,” said the girl, slowly.  “I don’t want you—­and papa—­to go on—­giving me everything.  I want,” she said, with a slight tremor, “to take—­to be just as little expense as I can after this.”

“Oh!...  Then what you want to do is to withdraw altogether from society—­and go to work to earn your own living?”

Carlisle raised her eyes.  “Is that what you want me to do, mamma?”

“It is not a question of what I want in this house any longer, it seems....  I am pointing out to you, Carlisle, that the independence of action you have lately taken upon yourself is a serious matter, to be looked at from more than one side.  It is not becoming,” said Mrs. Heth, watching her daughter’s face closely, “to bite the hand that feeds you.”

To this the girl had no reply.  Beneath her mother’s somewhat vivid metaphor, she perceived a truth, and that truth the tragic weakness of her position.  But she did not know now that large books had been written about this weakness, and many more would be....

Mrs. Heth having allowed the silence to continue a moment, educationally, drew a handkerchief across her upper lip, with its strange little downy mustache, and resumed: