Deb drew her filmy handkerchief across her eyes.
"Yes, I know." Mary smiled at her sister's grief. "But it is only for this once, Debbie dear. I did want to let you know—to have the delight of not being a liar and a shuffler for once. I shall not say such things again. I am not going to shock anybody else, for Bob's sake. Bob, of course, must be considered; after all, it was his father. None of us, even the freest, can be a free agent altogether; I understand that. I shall hold my tongue. The blessed thing is that that will be sufficient—a negative attitude, with the mouth shut; one is not driven any longer to positive deceit, without even being able to say that you can't help it. Oh, Debbie, you have been a free woman—why, why didn't you keep so?—but with all your freedom, and all your money, you don't know the meaning of such luxury as I live in now."
Deb gazed at her sister's rapt face, glowing in the firelight, and wondered if the brain behind it could be altogether sane.
"To call that HAPPINESS!" she ejaculated, with sad irony and scorn.
"If you must fix a name to it—yes," the widow considered thoughtfully.
"After all, 'unmiserable' does not go far enough. I AM happy. For, Debbie"—turning to look into the dark, troubled eyes—"I'm clean now—I never thought to be again—to know anything so exquisitely sweet, either in earth or heaven—I'm clean, body and soul, day and night, inside and outside, at last."
"Oh, POOR girl!" Deb moaned, with tears, when she realised what this meant.
"Rich," corrected Mary—"rich, dear, with just a roof and a crust of bread."
"Well," said Deb presently, "what about that roof and crust of bread? Since we are telling each other everything, tell me what your resources are. Don't say it is not my business; I know it isn't, but I shall be wretched if you don't let me make it mine a little. How much have you?"
"I don't know. I don't care. I haven't given money a thought. It doesn't matter."