“I overheard Sylvia telling Ware to-night that she was born in New York.  Could it be possible—­”

“No; she knows nothing.  You must remember that she was only three.  When she began to ask me when her birthday came—­well, Sally, I felt that I’d better give her one; and I told her, too, that she was born in New York City.  You understand—?”

“Of course, Andrew.  You did perfectly right.  She’s likely to ask a good many questions now that she’s growing up.”

“Oh,” he cried despairingly, “she’s already asked them!  It’s a heartbreaking business, I tell you.  Many a time when she’s piped up in our walks or at the table with some question about her father and mother I’ve ignored it or feigned not to hear; but within the past year or two I’ve had to fashion a background for her.  I’ve surrounded her origin and antecedents with a whole tissue of lies.  But, Sally, it must have been all right—­I had Edna’s own word for it!” he pleaded brokenly.  “It must have been all right!”

“Well, what if it wasn’t!  Does it make any difference about the girl?  All this mystery is a good thing; the denser the better maybe, as long as there’s any doubt at all.  Your good name protects her; it’s a good name, Andrew.  But go on; you may as well tell me the whole business.”

“I’ve told you all I know; and as I’ve told it I’ve realized more than before how pitifully little it is.”

“Well, there’s nothing to do about that.  I’ve never seen any sense in worrying over what’s done.  It’s the future you’ve got to figure on for Sylvia.  So you think college is a good thing for girls—­for a girl like Sylvia?”

“Yes; but I want your opinion.  You’re the only person in the world I can talk to; it’s helped me more than I can tell you to shift some of this burden to you.  Maybe it isn’t fair; you’re a busy woman—­”

“I guess I’m not so busy.  I’ve been getting lazy, and needed a hard jolt.  I’ve been wondering a good deal about these girls’ colleges.  Some of this new woman business looks awful queer to me, but so did the electric light and the telephone a few years ago and I can even remember when people were likely to drop dead when they got their first telegram.  Sylvia isn’t”—­she hesitated for an instant—­“from what you say, Sylvia isn’t much like her mother?”

“No.  Her qualities are wholly different.  Edna had a different mind altogether.  There was nothing of the student about her.  The only thing that interested her was music, and that came natural to her.  I’ve studied Sylvia carefully,—­I’m ashamed to confess how carefully,—­fearing that she would grow to be like her mother; but she’s another sort, and I doubt if she will change.  You can already see the woman in her.  That child, Sally, has in her the making of a great woman.  I’ve been careful not to crowd her, but she has a wonderful mind,—­not the brilliant sort that half sees things in lightning flashes, but a vigorous mind, that can grapple with a problem and fight it out.  I’m afraid to tell you how remarkable I think she is.  No; poor Edna was not like that.  She hated study.”