The young man stood motionless, facing the white-faced woman who had pronounced his fate for him. Happily it chanced that there came interruption, for a moment relieving both of the necessity of speech.

The click of the little crippled gate as it swung to brought Aurora Lane to her senses now. She hastened to the door, toward the outer stair. She met someone at the door.

"Julia!" she exclaimed. "Come in. Oh, I'm so glad. Come! He's here—he's come—he's right here now!"

There entered now the figure of a youngish-looking woman, her hair just tinged with gray here and there upon the temples; a woman perhaps the junior of Aurora Lane by a year or so. Of middle stature, she was of dark hair, and of brown eyes singularly luminous and soft. Not uncomely, one would have called her at first sight. The second glance would have shown the limp with which Julia Delafield walked, the bent-top cane which was her constant companion. She was one of those handicapped in the race of life, a cripple from her childhood, but a cripple in body only. One might not look in her face without the feeling that here was a nature of much charm.

Miss Julia likewise was owner of two smiles. The one was sad, pathetic, the smile of the hopeless soul. The other, and that usually seen by those about her, was wide and winning beyond words—the smile which had given her her place in the hearts of all Spring Valley. These many years "Miss Julia," as she was known to all, had held her place as "city librarian," in which quasi-public capacity she was known of all, and loved of all as well.

She came in now smiling, and kissed Aurora Lane before she allowed herself to see, standing in the inner room, the tall young man, who seemed to fill up the little apartment. A swift color came into her face as, with a sort of summoning up of her courage, she went up to him, holding out her hands. Even she put up her cheek to be kissed by him. It was her peculiarity when feeling any emotion, any eagerness, to flush brightly. She did so now.

"Oh, Miss Julia!" exclaimed Don. "I'm glad to see you. Why, I know you too—I feel as though I've always known you just as you are! So—you're my fairy godmother, who's got a real mother for me! All these years—till I was a man grown—how could you?—but I'd know you anywhere, because you're just the image of the picture you sent me with that of her. I mean when you wrote me last week for the first time—that wonderful letter—and told me I had a mother, and she was here, but that I mustn't ever come to see her. Of course, I wired at once I was coming! See now——"

"You are tall, Don," said Miss Julia softly. "You are very tall. You are—you are fine! I'm so glad you grew up tall. All the heroes in my books are tall, you know." She laughed aloud now, a rippling, joyous little laugh, and hooking her cane across the chair arm, sank back into Aurora Lane's largest rocker, her tender, wistful face very much suffused.

Don fetched his mother also a chair, and seated himself, still regarding Miss Julia curiously. He saw the two women look at one another, and could not quite tell what lay in the look.

As for Miss Julia, she was still in ignorance of the late events in the public square, because she had come directly across to Aurora Lane's house after the closing of her own duties at the library this Saturday afternoon, when most of her own patrons were disposed for the open than for books.

"Yes, Don," said she again, "you are fine!" Her eyes were all alight with genuine pride in him. "I'm so glad after all you came to see us before you went on West—even when I told you you mustn't! Oh, believe me, your mother scolded me! But I presume you are in a hurry to get away? And you've grown up! After all, twenty years is only a little time. Must you be in a hurry to leave us?"

"I ought not to be," said he, smiling pleasantly after all. "Surely I ought to come and see you two good partners first—I could not go away without that. Oh, mother has told me about you—or at least I'm sure she was just going to when you came in. Strange—I've got to get acquainted with my mother—and you. But I know you—you're two good partners, that's what you are—two good scouts together—isn't it true?"

Miss Julia flushed brightly. His chance word had gone passing close to the truth, but he did not know the truth. Don Lane did not know that here sat almost the only woman friend Aurora Lane could claim in all Spring Valley. Miss Julia in fact was silent partner in this very millinery shop—and silent partner in yet other affairs of which Don Lane was yet to learn.

This was a great day for Miss Julia as well as for Don's mother. Time and again these two women had sat in this very room and planned for this homecoming of the boy—this boy—time and again planned, and then agreed he must not come—their son. For—yes—they both called him son! If Don Lane, DieudonnÉ Lane, was filius nullius, at least he might boast two mothers.

How came this to pass? One would need to go back into the story of Miss Julia's life as well as that of Aurora Lane. She had been lame from birth, hopelessly so, disfiguringly so. Yet callous nature had been kind to her, had been compassionate. It gave to her a face of wondrous sweetness, a heart of wondrous softness thereto. Hopeless and resigned, yet never pathetic and never seeking pity, no living soul had ever heard an unkind or impatient word from Julia Delafield's lips, not in all her life, even when she was a child. She had suffered, yes. The story of that was written on her face—she knew she might not hope—and yet she hoped.

She knew all the great romances of the world, and knew likewise more than the greatest romancer ever wrote of women. For her—even with her wistful smile, the sudden flashing of her wistful eyes—there could be no romance, and she knew that well. Not for her was to be ever the love of man. She was of those cruelly defective in body, who may not hope for any love worth having. Surrounded daily by her friends, her books, Miss Julia was an eager reader, and an eager lover. She knew more of life's philosophy perhaps than any soul in all her town, and yet she might enjoy less of life's rewards than any other. A woman to the heart, feminine in every item, flaming with generous instincts, and yet denied all hope of motherhood; a woman steeped in philosophy and yet trained in emotion—what must she do—what could she do—she, one of the denied?

What Miss Julia had done long years ago was to select as her best friend the girl who of all in that heartless little town most needed a friend—Aurora Lane. She knew Aurora's secret—in part. In full she never yet had asked to know, so large was she herself of heart. All Spring Valley had scorned Aurora Lane, for that she had no father for her child. And—with what logic or lack of logic, who shall say?—Julia Delafield had taken Aurora Lane close to her own heart—because she had the child!

It is not too much to say that these two hopeless women, the one outcast of society, the other outcast of God, had brought up that child between them. Those who say women have no secrets they can keep should have noted this strange partnership in business, in life, in maternity! This had gone on for twenty years, and not a soul in Spring Valley could have told the truth of it. Don Lane did not know of it even now.

"Why, Aurora," said Miss Julia more than once in those early years to her friend, "you must not grieve. See what God has given you—a son!—and such a son! How glad, how proud, how contented you ought to be. You have a son! Look at me!"

So Aurora Lane did look at Julia Delafield. They comforted one another. It was from Miss Julia that year by year, falteringly, she learned to hope, learned to hold up her head. Thus gradually, by the aid of the love of another woman—a rare and beautiful thing, a wondrous thing—a thing so very rare in that world of jealousy in which by fate women so largely live—she got back some hold on life—she, mother of the son of no man, at the urge of a woman who could never have a son!

"Oh, we will plan, Aurora!" said Miss Julia in those piteous earlier times. "We will plan—we will get on. We'll fight it out together." And so they had, shoulder to shoulder, unnoted, unpraised and unadvised, year by year; and because they knew she had at least one friend, those who sat in judgment on Aurora Lane came little by little to forgive or to forget her sin, as it once was called of all the pulpits there.

And now a drunken tongue had recalled sharply, unforgivably, unescapably, that past which had so long lain buried—a past to which neither of them ever referred.

In all these years time had been doing what it could to repair what had been. Time wreathes the broken tree with vines to bind up its wounds. It covers the scarred earth with grasses presently. In all these years some men had died, others had left the village. Certain old women, poisonous of heart, also had died, and so the better for all concerned. Other women mayhap had their sacrifices—and their secrets. But as for Aurora Lane, at least she had won and held one friend. And so they two had had between them a child, a son, a man. One had gathered of the philosophy of life, of the world's great minds. The other had brought into the partnership the great equipment with which Nature forever defies all law and all philosophy save her own.

Now, product of their twenty years of friendship, here he stood, tall and strong—Don Lane, their boy, blood on his hand because of that truth which he swiftly—too swiftly—had declared to be a lie; and which was no lie but the very truth.

But Don Lane still was ignorant of the closeness of truth of his last remark. He only put such face now on all this as he might.

"Miss Julia," said he lamely, and giving her instinctively the title which the town gave her, "I know you have been good to my mother."

"Why, no, I haven't, Don," said she, "not at all. I've been so busy I have hardly seen your mother for a month or so. But we have kept track of you—why, Don, I've got your class records, every one. You don't know how I got them? Isn't it true, Aurie?"

"I don't know what I would ever have done without her," said Aurora Lane slowly.

Don Lane laughed suddenly. "Why," said he, "it's almost as if I had two mothers, isn't it?"

Both women grew red now, and poor Don, knowing little as he did, grew red as well.

"But what's the matter with your hand, Don—you've cut yourself! I've told your mother she ought to fix that gate-latch."

Don looked once more at his wounded hand, and sought to cover the blood-stain with his kerchief. He saw that Miss Julia had heard nothing of the affair of a few moments earlier in the public square.

"Why, that's nothing," he mumbled.

This was too much for the straightforward nature of Aurora Lane, and rapidly as she might she gave some account to Miss Julia of these late events. She told all—except the basic and essential truth. A sad shame held her back from talking even before Miss Julia of the fact that her boy now knew he was the child of shame itself.

"That's too bad," said Julia Delafield slowly, gravely, as she heard the half news. "I'm awfully sorry—I'm awfully sorry for your mother, Don. You fought? My! I wish I had been there to see it."

Miss Julia's face flushed once more, indicative of the heroic soul which lay in her own misshapen body.

"I didn't want to hit that fellow," said Don. "Of course, they had no chance, either of them, with a man who could box a bit."

"And you learned that—in college, Don?"

He only grinned in reply, and thrust the wounded hand into his pocket, out of sight.

"I'll warrant you, Don," said Miss Julia, "that if it hadn't been for you old Tarbush, the town marshal, never would have taken Johnnie Adamson to jail. Those two were a public nuisance every Saturday afternoon. I'm glad you have ended it. But tell me, what made them pick on you?"

Don Lane struggled for a time, not daring to look at his mother, before he spoke. "The half-wit wouldn't let us pass, and then his father called me a name—if that man or any other ever calls me that again, I'm going to beat him up till his own people won't know him. I can't tell you," he went on, flushing.

He did not catch the sudden look which now passed between the two women. A sudden paleness replaced the flush on Miss Julia's cheek. A horror sat in her eye. "What does he know?" was the question she asked of Aurora Lane, eye only speaking the query.

"At least, Miss Julia," said poor Don, "you somehow certainly must know about me. I'll get all my debts squared around some time. As soon as I can get settled down in my new place West—I've got a fine engineering job out in Wyoming already—I'm going to have my mother come. And if ever I get on in the world, there are some other things I'm not going to forget. Any friend of hers——" His big hand, waved toward his mother, told the rest of what he could not speak.

They sat on, uncomfortable, for a time, neither of the three knowing how much the others knew, nor how much each ought to know. Of the three, Aurora Lane was most prepared. For twenty years she had been learning to be prepared. For twenty years she had been praying that her boy never would know what now he did know.

Don Lane looked at his mother's face, but could not fathom it. Life to him thus far had been more or less made up of small things—sports, books, joys, small things, no great ponderings, no problems, no introspections, no self-communings—and until but very recently no love, no great emotion, no passion to unsettle him. This shadow which now fell over him—he could not have suspected that. But his mother all these years had known that perhaps at any unforeseen time this very hour might come—had prayed against it, but known always in her heart that it might come, nay, indeed one day must come.

"Damn the place, anyhow!" he broke out at length. "You've lived here long enough, both of you. It's nothing but a little gossiping hell, that's all. I'll take you away from here, both of you, that's what I'll do!" He stretched out a hand suddenly to his mother, who took it, stroking it softly.

"Don, boy," said she, "I didn't run away. Why should we run away now? If we did, we'd take ourselves with us wherever we went, wouldn't we? This is as good a place to live out life as any I could have found. You can't really evade things, you know."

"As though I asked to! I'd rather fight things than evade them."

"I think so," said his mother mournfully. "I suppose that's true."

"But you've got to be happy, mother," said he, again taking her hand in his. "I'll make you happy. I'm ready to work for you now—I'll pay you back."

"And Miss Julia?" smiled his mother. "It was she who told you the news, you know, and you didn't obey her—you came against orders."

"Why, yes, of course. She's been so awfully good to you. I know what she's been, be sure of that." (As though he did know!)

"Don't be too bitter, Don," said Miss Julia Delafield, slowly now, hoping only to salve a wound she felt he might have, yet not sure herself what the wound might be. "Don't be unrelenting. Why, it seems to me, as we grow older and begin to read and think, we find out the best of life is just being—well, being charitable—just forgetting. Nothing matters so very much, Don. That's doctrine, isn't it?"

Don Lane never finished what reply he might have made. There came yet another interruption, yet another footfall on the little walk without, following the clash of the crippled gate as it swung to. It was a man's footfall which they heard on the gallery. They all rose now as Aurora threw open the door.

It was the solemn visage of Joel Tarbush, the town marshal, which met Aurora Lane.

"How do you do, Mr. Tarbush?" asked she. "Won't you come in?"

The gentleman accosted gave a quick glance up the street and down.

"I'm a married man," said he, with something of a vile grin on his face as he looked at her.

She answered him only with the level gaze of her own eyes, and pushed open the door. He followed her in, hesitatingly, and then saw the others in the little room.

"Ma'am," said he, "I come to summons you to the justice court this afternoon."

"Yes," said Aurora Lane. "Why?"

"It's that Adamson case," said he—"he knows." He turned now to the tall figure of DieudonnÉ Lane, instinctively stepping back as he did so.

"In what way do you want us?" asked Don Lane now. "As witnesses? My mother——?"

"I want your—your ma as a witness, yes," said Tarbush, grinning, "since you've said it. For you, you'll have to come along on charge of resisting a officer; likewise for assault and battery, charge brought by Ephraim Adamson; likewise for disturbing the peace. Likewise we're going to test the case of habeas chorus. Old Man Adamson's got money. He's sober now, and he's got a lawyer—the best lawyer in town. They're going to get the eejit out of jail, and Old Man Adamson's going to make trouble for you."

How much longer Tarbush might have prattled on in his double capacity of officer and gossip remained uncertain. Miss Julia turned upon him, her large dark eyes flashing:

"Why do you bring her into it? She's just told me—they were only crossing the square—she was only trying to go home—she wasn't troubling anyone in all the world! Leave her out of it."

"I ain't got no choice in it," said Tarbush. "I'm serving the papers now. Miss Lane and the boy both comes. Not that I got any feeling in the matter."

"Why should you have?" asked Don Lane, with a cynical smile. "You've been letting that ruffian run this town every Saturday for years, they tell me, and you didn't dare call his bluff till you saw he was whipped. All right, we'll go. I'll see this thing through—but I want to tell you, you've started something that will be almighty hard to stop. You needn't think I'm going to let this thing drop here."

"Oh, now," began the man of authority, "I wish't you wouldn't feel thataway. I done my duty as I seen it. Didn't I take him to jail?"

"Yes, you did, after I had turned him over to you. But you took the wrong man at that."

"Who should I of took?"

"I don't know," laughed Don Lane bitterly. "All the town, I think. We'll see."

This was too cryptic for Joel Tarbush. Weakly he felt in his pocket for tobacco.

"Well," said he at length, "I done summonsed you."

"We have no choice," said Aurora Lane, after a time. "We'll get ready. Miss Julia, can't you go with me?"

"Of course," said Julia Delafield quietly.