"No—perhaps not."
"You have dropped a stitch, mother. Let me see."
She worked steadily at the knitting for some minutes, then gave it back, remarking, "Now I have put things right."
"Prue—"
"Yes."
"I have been thinking so much to-day about my own past. About when I was a girl."
Prue was a little surprised. Mrs. Valentine seldom talked voluntarily of herself.
"One sees the meaning of things—looking back. There was a time when I would have given all I possessed for a different life from this that I have had."
"Don't most people go through that—more or less?"
"A good many. It was before I knew your father. Somebody else—somebody who seemed to care for me—for a time I thought he did care. And when I found my mistake—found he had deceived me—I thought my life was over. Nothing seemed left . . . And yet my life really was hardly begun: and that which I wanted would not have been happiness, but misery. Nothing short of misery. He could be winning enough when he chose, but there was no strength of principle. His wife has had a bitter story since, poor thing—and it might have been mine, if I could have had my choice . . . The real happiness came later: and I have often thanked God that He guided me away from those quicksands, and denied me my heart's wish. Though at the time it seemed almost more than I could bear. Nobody ever had a better or truer husband than I in your dear father."