"I have a piece of news for you," said Mrs. Prescott the next morning to her son at the breakfast table.
He looked at her with inquiring interest.
"Helen Harley has gone to work," she said.
"Gone to work! Mother, what do you mean?"
"The heiress of seven generations must work like a common Northern mill-hand to support that pompous old father of hers, the heir of six Virginia generations, who certainly would not work under any circumstances to support his daughter."
"Won't you explain yourself more clearly, mother?"
"It's this. The Harleys are ruined by the war. The Colonel is absorbed in his career and spends all his salary on himself. The old gentleman doesn't know anything about his financial affairs and doesn't want to; it's beneath his dignity. Helen, who does know about them, is now earning the bread for her father and herself. Think of a Southern girl of the oldest blood doing such a thing! It is very low and degrading, isn't it?"
She looked at him covertly. A sudden thought occurred to him.
"No, mother," he replied. "It is not low and degrading. You think just the contrary, and so do I. Where has Helen gone to work?"
"In the Treasury Department, under Mr. Sefton. She is copying documents there."