"He was an educated man. He came of a good family."
"And you are different from the women we used to see down the river. Goodness, I was proud of you and father. There isn't a woman in this town who—"
"I was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and lived there till I was nearly twenty," interrupted Mrs. Gwyn, calmly. "I taught school for two years after my father died. My mother did not long survive him. After her death I came west with my brother and his wife and a dozen other men and women. We lived in a settlement on the Ohio River for several years. My brother was killed by the Indians. His widow took their two small children and went back to Salem to live. I have never heard from her. We did not like each other. I was glad to have her go."
"Where did you first meet father?"
She regretted the question the instant the words were out of her mouth. The look of pain,—almost of pleading,—in her mother's eyes caused her to reproach herself.
"Forgive me, mother," she cried. "I did not stop to think. I know how it hurts you to talk about him, and I should have—"
"Be good enough to remember in the future," said Rachel Gwyn, sternly, her eyes now cold and forbidding. She arose and stalked to the kitchen window, where she stood for a long time looking out into the gathering darkness.
"Clear the table, Hattie," said Viola, presently. "We are through."
Then she walked over to her mother and timidly laid an arm across her shoulder.
"I am sorry, mother," she said.