greed and shallowness. And she would tell them so—Neale and her father. She hated the thought of it. But the thing had to be done. In a few minutes she would be facing them in the library, and their arguments would swing back and forth. But nothing they could say would alter her decision. The spirit which had sustained her mother would sustain her now. There was no bondage like that of being chained to weakness. The only freedom was in the strength of one's soul.
How often her mother had said these things to her in their candle-lighted room, and they had meant little because life had not taught her their truth. But now the truth of them seemed to blaze down on her from those blue heavens. As if again her mother spoke.
She turned from the window and went upstairs again. She packed a small bag, put on a straight dark frock, and laid her hat and coat beside the bag. Then she made her way to the library.
The minutes passed. The clock in the hall chimed the hour. Nine thin notes that left a silvery echo. She rose restlessly, and went to the window which overlooked the front drive. Two automobiles were parked by the side of the road, and on the steps of the house between the white pillars a half dozen newspaper men were waiting.
When at last Winslow drove up, Hildegarde saw him stop and parley with the men. Her father came on, hurrying a bit.
"Here we are at last," he said, as he entered the library. "You and I will have to talk fast, Hildegarde.
