The attempt failed. "Was your mother enough?" demanded Sue.
Mrs. Milo came strolling back. Was it possible that tactics invariably efficacious in the past would utterly fail her today? She made a second attempt. "But—but do you realize," she faltered, with what seemed deep feeling; "—your father died when Wallace was so little. If you hadn't helped me, how would I have gotten on? If you'd married——"
"Couldn't I have helped you?"
"But I had Wallace so late. And I'd have been alone. What would I have done without my daughter?"
Sue was regarding her steadily. "What did your mother do without you? And when you die, where shall I be?—Alone! Ah, you've seen the pathos of your own situation!—But how about mine?" For a second time in a single day, this was a changed Sue, unaccountably clear-visioned, and plain of speech.
"Dear me!" cried her mother, mockingly. "Our eyes are open all of a sudden!"
"Yes,—my eyes are open."
"Why not open your mouth?"
"Thank you for the suggestion. I shall. For twenty-five years, my eyes have been shut. I've always said, 'My mother is sweet, and pious, and kind. She's one of that lovely type that's passing.' (Thank Heaven, the type is passing!) If now and then you were a little severe with me—oh, I've noticed it because people have sometimes interfered, as Hattie did this morning—I've never minded at all. I've said, 'Whatever I am, I owe to my mother. And what she does is right.' Anything you said or did to me never made any difference in the wonderful feeling I had about you—the feeling of love and belief. All this time I've never once thought of rebelling. But what you said and did to another—to her, a girl who needs kindness and sympathy, who's never done you an intentional wrong——! Oh, you're not really gentle and charitable! You're cruel, mother!"
"I am just."