The commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the little room. Aurora Lane arose and passed into the adjoining room to answer it. Her son regarded her with lackluster eyes when she returned.

"It was Miss Julia," said she, "at the library. She wanted to know if you were here. She says we must be sure to come out tonight."

"Come out—to what?"

"It's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. She is very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. Everybody will be there. You see, Don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain us. Why, if I could see a real theater once—I don't know how happy I would be. We've had movies, and now and then a lecture—and Miss Julia."

"I don't want to go, mother."

"Neither do I, Don; so I'm going."

"Why should we go? It's nothing to us."

"It's everything to Miss Julia—and it's everything to us, Don. Stop to think and you will realize what I mean. We can't run away under fire."

"There's something in that," he rejoined after a time, slowly. "Besides, what Miss Julia wishes we both ought to do."

Hands in pockets, he began once more gloomily to pace up and down the narrow room. "I can't stand this much longer, mother," said he. "I've got to get out—I've got to get hold of some money somehow."

"Yes," said she. "As for me, I have collected the last money due me—it went for your graduation suit. I don't know how you saved your railway fare home. I didn't want you to know these things, of course, but as things have happened, you had to know. A great many things today—well, they've gotten away from me."

"It's I who have spoiled everything, too. But how could I help it—I just couldn't submit."

"It's hard to submit, Don," said she slowly. "Perhaps a man ought not to learn it. A woman has to learn it."

He turned to look at her wonderingly, and at length went over and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Dear Mom!" said he gently. "You're wonderful. You are fine—splendid! I'm just getting acquainted with you, am I not? You're a good woman, mother; I'm so glad."

She looked at him now with eyes suddenly wet, her face working strangely, and turned away.

"Come, Don," said she after a time. "We must get ready for our little supper. Spring Valley, you see," she added, gaily, "dines at six and goes to the movies at seven."

Presently she left him to his own devices for a time, before calling him out into the little kitchen which served her also as a dining-room.

"It's not much," said she, shrugging and spreading out her hands, "but it's all I'd have had—bread and milk and cereal. I don't use much sugar or butter." Then, hurriedly, seeing the pain she had caused him, she went on.

"You soon get used to such things. Why, I have only two gowns to my name, and I put on my best one to meet you, when you wired you were coming, and I saw I'd have to meet you. This hat has been fixed over I don't know how many times—once more, for you. You will see, I'll not be at much trouble to dress for the entertainment tonight."

She opened upon the table cover her little pocket book and showed its contents—one small, tightly-folded, much-creased bill, which still lay within its depths.

"My last!" said she, grimacing. "That's our capital in life, Don! And we have all the world against us now. We must fight, whether or not we want to fight."

"But now," she added, "I can't talk any more. Let us go. It may do us good. Miss Julia at least will be glad to see us, if no one else is."

Early as they were, they were not the first arrivals at the library room where Miss Julia Delafield had devised her entertainment. She had borrowed certain benches from the public school, certain chairs as well. Already a goodly portion of Spring Valley's best people filled these. The seats made back from the little raised platform which usually served as the librarian's desk place. This now was enlarged by the removal of all the desks.

Back of this narrow dais was draped a large flag of our Union, and in the center of its folds was the campaign portrait of Judge Henderson, chief speaker of the evening.

Aurora Lane and her son entered unnoticed for the time, and quietly took seats in the last row of benches at the rear, near to some awkward youths who had straggled in and seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings. Not even Miss Julia noted them, for presently it became her flushing duty to escort Judge Henderson, and several of her other speakers, to the edge of the little platform, where they took their places back of the conventional table and pitcher of water.

The leader in the town's affairs bent over affably to speak with his associates—three ministers of the gospel, Reverend Augustus Wilson, of the U. P. Church, Reverend Henry Fullerton, of the Congregationalist Church, and Reverend William B. Burnham, of the Methodists. There were many other ministers of the gospel in Spring Valley, which rejoiced exceedingly in the multiplicity of its churches; but to these, in the belief of Miss Julia, had more specially been given the gift of tongues.

There came presently and seated himself on the bench next to Aurora Lane yet another minister of the gospel, old Mr. Rawlins, of the Church of Christ, the least important denomination of the village, so few of numbers and so scant of means that its house of worship must needs be located just at the edge of town, where land was very cheap. A kindly man, Parson Rawlins, and of mysterious life, for none might say whence came his raven-brought revenue. Questioned, Brother Rawlins admitted that he was not in the least sure whether or not he had a definite creed. He held out his hand smilingly to Aurora Lane.... An old man he was, with white hair and a thin face, his chin shaven smooth and shining between his bushy white side whiskers. His eyes were very mild.

"How do you do, Aurora?" said he. "Now, don't say a word to me—I know this boy." And he shook hands with Don also. "I know him," said he, "and I know all he has done today—we all know all about it, Aurora, so don't talk to me. Tut, tut, my son! But had I been in your place very likely I should have done the same thing—I might have whipped old Eph Adamson. You know, sometimes even a minister asks, 'Lord, shall we smite with the sword?'"

The face of the old man grew grave as he looked from one to the other. Some presentiment told him that a change had come across Aurora Lane's manner of life. Could it be possible that she had grown defiant—was she restive under the weight of the years? Had this sudden and sensational resurrection of her past brought rebellion to her heart, all these years so patient, so gentle?

He waved a hand towards the backs of the assemblage. "I suppose you recognize some of your own handicraft, don't you, 'Rory?" said he, laughing.

Aurora laughed, also. "A good many," said she frankly. "But the mail order business in ready-trimmed hats has cut into my trade a great deal of late. Then there are excursions into Columbus. Still, I see some of my bonnets here and there—even now and then a gown."

They both laughed yet again, cheerily, both knowing the philosophy of the poor. Further conversation at the time was cut off by the entrance of the musicians of the evening, an organization known as the Spring Valley Cornet Band. These young men, a dozen in number, made their way solemnly to a place adjacent to the platform, where presently they busied themselves with certain mild tapping of drums and soft moanings of alto horns and subdued tootlings of cornets.

The leader of the band was the chief clerk in the First National Bank, Mr. Jerome Westbrook by name, himself Spring Valley's glass of fashion and mold of form, and not unconscious of the public attention attracted to himself in his present capacity. Now and again he looked out over the audience to see if he could locate a certain young lady, none less than Sallie Lester, the daughter of the president of his bank, upon whom he had bestowed the honor of his affections. He was willing to add thereto eke the honor of his hand.

It was as Aurora Lane had said—this annual gathering of Miss Julia's was the social clearing house of the community. And this typical attendance, representative of the little city at its best, offered that strange contrast of the sexes so notable in any American assemblage. The men were ordinary of look and garb, astonishingly ordinary, if one might use the term; stalwart enough, but slouchy, shapeless, and ill-clad. Not so the women, who seemed as though of another and superior social world. If here and there the face of a man seemed stolid, cloddish, peasant-like, not so any of the half dozen faces of the women next adjoining him. Type, class—call what you like that which is owned by the average American woman, even of middle class—that distinction was as obvious as is usual in all such gatherings. Scattered here and there through this audience, as in any audience of even the humblest sort in America, were a half dozen faces of young women, any of whom must have been called very beautiful, strikingly beautiful—beautiful as Aurora Lane must once have been.

The apparel of the men was nondescript. That of the women, however or wherever secured, made them creatures apart. The men, too, sat uncommunicative, silent; whereas their daughters or spouses turned, chattering, laughing, waving a hand to this or that friend. In short, the women availed themselves fully, as women will, of this opportunity of social intercourse. And always, as head turned to head, there was a look, a whispered word, of woman to woman. Little by little, in the mysterious way of such assemblages, every woman in the house came to know that Aurora Lane and her boy—who had only been hid, and not dead, all these years—were seated on the back seat, next to Old Man Rawlins. Did anyone ever hear the like of that? In reality Spring Valley was out to hear the rest of the news about Aurora Lane and her unfathered boy as soon as possible. Gossip covers all the nuances, the shades, the inner and hidden things of information, especially when information may be classified as scandal. This is the real news. It never needs wings. It needed no wings now.

Naturally, it was incumbent upon Judge Henderson to introduce a minister of the gospel to open the meeting with prayer—we Americans apologize to Providence at all public occasions, even our political conventions. Naturally thereafter Judge Henderson rose once more, took a drink of water, and signaled to the leader of the Spring Valley Silver Cornet Band; whereupon Mr. Jerome Westbrook, wiping all previous trace of German silver from below his mustache, essayed once more the leadership in concord of sweet sounds. This brought Judge Henderson up to his introductory remarks, properly so-called.

He made no ill figure as he stood, immaculately clad as was his custom, his costume still being the long black coat, his white waistcoat, the white tie, which he had worn that afternoon in court. It was charged against him, by certain of his enemies, that Judge Henderson had been known to change his shirt twice in one day, but this was not commonly believed. That he changed it at least once every day had, however, come to be accepted in common credence, although this also was held as his sheer eccentricity.

His face was smooth-shaven, for really he was shaved daily, and not merely on Saturday nights. His wide, easy, good-humored mouth, his large features, his well-defined brows, his full eye, his commanding figure, gave him a presence good enough for almost any stage. He stood easily now, accepting as his right the applause which greeted him, and smiled as he placed on the table beside him the inevitable glass of water at which he had sipped. Some said that in his own office Judge Henderson did not confine himself to water—but any leading citizen must have his enemies.

The worthy Judge made precisely what manner of address must be made on precisely such occasions. To him his audience was made up of fellow citizens, ladies and gentlemen. He accosted them with the deference and yet the confidence of some statesman of old. Indeed, he might have been scarce less a figure than Senator Thomas Hart Benton himself, so profuse—and so inaccurate—were the classical quotations which he saw fit to employ. It had grown his custom to do this with care-free mind. Indeed, there was but one here in this audience tonight who perhaps might have chided him for his Greek—a young man who sat far back in the rear, in a place near the door—a young man who none the less, it must be confessed, paid small attention to the Hendersonian allusions which had to do with literature, with history, the gentle arts, the culture, the progress of our proud republic, and of this particular American community.

So now it came on to the time of Reverend Henry B. Fullerton, who likewise spoke of literature and culture, patriotism and the glories of our republic. The other ministers also in due course, after certain uneasy consultation of the clock upon the opposite wall, spoke much in similar fashion.

After these formidable preliminaries, it was time for Judge Henderson to give the real address of the evening—this latter now delivered with frequent consultations of the large watch which he placed beside him on the table. So presently he came to such portion of his speech as requires the orator to say, "But, my friends, the hour grows late." Whereafter presently, figuratively, he dismissed the audience with his blessing, well satisfied from the applause that his campaign was doing well. He had but casually and incidentally allowed it to be known that his own annual check to the city library was for a thousand dollars—no more than would cover the librarian's salary.

By this time, it was a half-hour past midnight, and none present might say that he had not had full worth of all the moneys expended for this entertainment. It had been a great evening for the candidate. Moreover, most of the old ladies present had enjoyed themselves in social conversation regarding the absorbing news of the day. As for the half dozen young village beauties present, there was not one who did not know precisely where Don Lane sat—not even Sally Lester, who irritated Jerome Westbrook beyond measure when he saw her pretending to look at the clock at the back of the hall to see what time it was. Really, as Jerome Westbrook knew very well, she was only trying to see Don Lane, the newest young man in town—wholly impossible socially, but one who had made sudden history of interest in feminine eyes.

Moody and intent upon his own thoughts, Don Lane himself by no means realized the importance of the occasion so far as he himself and his mother were concerned. He did not know that he was on trial here, that they two were on inspection. His ears were deaf to the impassioned words of all and several of the orators of the evening. Before his eyes appeared only one face. It was that of a young girl with a face clean-cut and high-browed, with sweet and kindly eyes—the girl he was to meet tomorrow, to whom he was to say good-by—Anne Oglesby. "Anne! Anne!" his heart was exclaiming all the time. For now he knew that he in turn must bruise yet another human heart, because of what had been, and in his brain was room now for no other thought, no other scene, no other face. There swept down upon him, if he thought of it at all now and then, only a feeling of the insufficiency, the narrowness, the unworthiness, the tawdriness, of all this which lay about him. And yet it was this to which he must come back—this was his world—this at least was the world in which his mother had made her own battle—had won for a time, and now had lost.

After midnight, when the assembly was dismissed, Spring Valley felt it had done its duty—it had come out to see Miss Julia's library. Everyone who passed Miss Julia, as she stood near the door, flushed and pleased, congratulated her on the progress she had made, on the neatness of her desks and shelves. Some said a word about the great work she was doing. Others shook hands with the elevated elbow, smiled sweetly, and repeated, parrot-like, "So glad!" and "Thanks so much!" In any case, little by little the room was cleared. There remained only the unspeakable desolation of any room lately occupied by a crowd—the litter of paper and odds and ends, the dulled lights, the heavy and oppressive air.

In her place, back of the dividing line which fenced off the socially elect, stood Aurora Lane, pale, weary, and yet composed, her hands folded low before her. She looked straight ahead, nor asked any of these people passing out for that recognition which she knew they would not give her. Don himself, speaking now and then to the kindly old man who retained his place at their side, found himself now and again in spite of himself wondering that of all these who passed, and of these many who turned and gazed their way, none ventured a greeting. His own face grew hard. All life to him had been a sweet, happy, sunny thing till now. He never had known any contest but that of sport, and there, even in defeat, he had met sportsmanship. He had not learned that in human life as we live it, honor and fair play and generosity and justice are things not in any great demand, nor sportsmanship in any general practice.

"Come, we must go," said Aurora at length.

They were the last to leave the room, although they might have been the first. In a brief lesson Don Lane's mother had taught him much.