“Whatever you do,” he always concluded, “don’t begin worrying about things down there.  If you do, you’ll never get well.”

“I’m not worrying,” she told him, and once she added, “It seems ever so long ago, somehow—­that time we had down there.”

As the spring advanced, her thoughts took her further than ever from their old paths.  Instead of thinking of something else (as she used to do), when Helen was telling of her love affairs, Mary began to listen to them—­and even to sit up till Helen returned from the club.  One night, as Helen was chatting of a young an from Boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him “Helen’s little lamb,” Mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room.

“Cigarettes,” she thought, “and—­and raspberry jam—!” She waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, “Did Burdon Woodward ride home with you tonight?” she asked.

“With Doris and me,” nodded Helen, smiling at herself in the mirror.  “He told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized.”

Nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as Helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, Mary was sure she recognized Burdon’s dashing handwriting.  A vague sense of uneasiness passed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail.

On the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father.

“Rio de Janeiro,” breathed Mary, reading the post-mark.  “Why, that’s where the cable came from!”

She opened the letter....  It was signed “Paul.”

“Dear Sir (it began)

“This isn’t begging.  I am through with that.  When you paid no attention to my cable, I said, ‘Never again!’ You might like to know that I buried my wife and two youngest that time.  It hurt then, but I can see now that they were lucky.

“I have one daughter left—­twelve years old.  She’s just at the age when she ought to be looked after.  This is her picture.  She’s a pretty girl, and a good girl, but fond of fun and good times.

“I’ve done my best, but I’m down and out—­tired—­through.  I guess it’s up to you what sort of a granddaughter you want.  There’s a school near here where she could go and be brought up right.  It won’t cost much.  You can send the money direct—­if you want the right sort of a granddaughter.

“If you want the other kind, all you have to do is to forget it.  The crowd I go with aren’t good for her.

“Anyway I enclose the card and rates and references of the school.  You see they give the consuls’ names.

“If you decide yes, you want your granddaughter to have a chance, write a letter to the name and address below.  That’s me.  Then write the school, sending check for one year and say it is for the daughter of the name and address below.  That is the name I am known by here.

“I’m sorry for everything, but of course it’s too late now.  The truest thing in the world is this:  As you make your bed, so you’ve got to lie in it.  I made mine wrong, but you couldn’t help it.  I wouldn’t bother you now except for Rosa’s sake.