"And I never knew you," said Aurora Lane after a time. "Not many women have ever said much to me."
"Nor did I know you," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "You were a stranger to me when I saw you now, right here—Don's mother! We were so excited, Don and I, that I never identified you two, although—yes—I knew—something about—about——What shall I call you—you see, maybe I'll be your daughter yet."
"Some call me—Mrs. Lane. Some—Miss Lane. You can't call me 'mother.' For most part I am the village milliner, my dear—nothing more than that. I'm nobody. But generally, I'm 'Aurora Lane.' ... Now you know it all. I'm so sorry for you, my dear girl. You're fine—you're splendid. You're a good girl; and you're so very beautiful. If only you belonged with—with him—with me. It's too bad for you."
Anne Oglesby, the more composed of the two, impulsively stroked back the thick ruff of auburn hair from Aurora's face. "You mustn't bother about me," she said.
"But I must bother about you! You must give him up. My dear, my dear, it can't be! I'm just learning now how hard that would be for him because it's so hard for me."
"He kissed me," said Anne Oglesby simply. "After that it was too late."
"Why, what do you mean, my dear?"
"He didn't have to do anything more after that," said Anne Oglesby slowly. "He had not had time to say anything before that."
"He should not have kissed you," said Aurora Lane. "But that was his farewell to you."
"It was not farewell!" said Anne Oglesby. "It was our beginning! I will not give him up. If he had not kissed me—just when he did—just as he did—I would not have known! I'm glad!"