"And she stayed till she was fifteen?"
"Yes. Then her father began to make money, and he made it——"
"Hand-over-fist," interposed Larry.
"Exactly. And I never saw one so puffed up with pride and vain-glory. It would have been funny, only that he made us feel it so tragically. He tore Joyce away—the word is not an exaggeration for she fought him at every point and only yielded to positive compulsion. He put her into a fashionable school and bade her have nothing more to do with those 'down-at-the-heel Bonnivels.' It was a trifle hard after the love and care we had lavished upon her."
"It was beastly!" muttered Larry between his shut teeth. "Did he never give you even gratitude, let alone money?"
"No. He measured out a niggardly sum for her board, and gave it over with the air of munificently rewarding me. I would have refused to accept it, but your father was gone, then, and I nearly blind. I could not let my little ones suffer to gratify my own pride. I took it, but I dared not speak for fear I should say too much. I simply bowed my head in acknowledgment, and thanked God when he was gone, because I had been able to control myself!"
"But Joyce did not see that?" put in Dorette.
"No, I am glad to say she did not. The scene with her had ended with her passionate rush to the carriage, where she was lying back on the seat half fainting amid her tears."
"Oh, how cruel!" cried Camille, almost in tears herself.
"And when you had gone blind through your constant embroidering to keep your little tribe together—Joyce and all!"