Conrad Lagrange made as if to speak, but checked himself and waited for the other to continue.

Aaron King went on; “Out of regard for my mother, the matter was kept as quiet as possible.  The one who suffered the heaviest loss was able to protect her—­in a measure.  All the others were fully reimbursed.  But mother—­it would have been easier for her if she had died then.  She withdrew from her friends and from the life she loved—­she denied herself to all who sought her and devoted her life to me.  Above all, she planned to keep me in ignorance of the truth until I should be equipped to win the place in the world that she coveted for me.  It was for that, she sent me away, and kept me from home.  As the demands for my educational expenses grew naturally heavier, she supplemented the slender resources, left in the final settlement of my father’s estate, by sacrificing the treasures of her home, and by giving up the luxuries to which she had been accustomed from childhood.  She even provided for me after her death—­not wealth, but a comfortable amount, sufficient to support me in good circumstances until I can gain recognition and an income from my work.”

Under the lash of his memories, the young man sprang to his feet.

“In God’s name, Lagrange, why did not some one tell me?  I did not know—­I did not know—­I thought—­O mother, mother, mother—­why did you do it?  Why was I not told?  All these years I have lived a selfish fool, and you—­you—­I would have given up everything—­I would have worked in a ditch, rather than accept this.”

The deep, quiet voice of Conrad Lagrange broke the stillness that followed the storm of the artist’s passionate words.  “And that is the answer, Aaron.  She knew, too well, that you would not have accepted her sacrifice, if you had known.  That is why she kept the secret until you had finished your education.  She forbade her friends—­she forbade me to interfere.  And don’t you see that she was right?  Don’t you see it?  We would have done her the greatest injustice if we had, against her will, deprived her of this privilege.  Her splendid pride, her high sense of honor, her nobility of spirit demanded the sacrifice.  It was her right.  God forgive me—­I tried to make her see it otherwise—­but she knew best.  She always knew best, Aaron.  Her only hope of regaining for you that self-respect and that position in life to which you—­by right of birth and natural endowment—­are entitled, was in you.  The name which she had given to you could be restored to honor by you only.  To train and equip you for your work, and to enable you, unhampered by need, to gain your footing, was the determined passion of her life.  Her sacrifice, her suffering to that end, was the only restitution she could make to you for that which your father had squandered.  Her proud spirit, her fine intelligence, her mother love for you, demanded it.”

“I know,” returned the artist.  “She told me before she died.  She made me understand.  She said that it was my inheritance.  She asked for my promise that I would be true to her purpose.  Her last words were an expression of her confidence that I would not disappoint her—­that I would win a place and name that would wipe out the shame of my father’s dishonor.  And I will, Lagrange, I must.  Mother—­mother shall not be disappointed—­she shall not be disappointed.”