“I can’t afford to doubt it; if I did, I should not be able to——­”

She paused, while an increasing pallor overspread her features.

“That is right, dear, believe in her.  We should drink and live upon faith in our mothers, as we did their milk that nourished us.  When children lose faith in their mothers, God pity both!  Did you learn from Hannah the character of the paper?”

“How could I question a servant concerning my mother’s secrets?  I only learned that Mr. Hargrove had given to my mother a copy of that which was burned by the lightning.”

“In writing to her, did you mention the facts?”

“I have not as yet.  I doubted whether I ought to allude to the subject, lest she should think I was intruding upon her confidence.”

“Dismiss that fear, and in your next letter acquaint her fully with all you learned from poor Hannah; it may materially involve her interest or welfare.  Now, Regina, I am about to say something which you must not misinterpret, for my purpose is to comfort you, to strengthen your confidence in your mother.  I do not know her real name, I never heard your father’s mentioned, but this I do know,—­dear Peyton told me that in this room he performed the marriage ceremony that made them husband and wife.  Why such profound secrecy was necessary your poor mother will some day explain to you.  Until then, be patient.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay.  It does comfort me to know that Mr. Hargrove was the minister who married them.  Of course it is no secret to you that my mother is an actress?  I discovered it accidentally, for you know the papers were never left in my way, and in all her letters she alluded to her ‘work being successful,’ but never mentioned what it was; and I always imagined she was a musician giving concerts.  But one day last June, at the Sabbath-school Festival, Mrs. Potter gave me a Boston paper, containing an article marked with ink, which she said she wished me to read, because it would edify a Sunday-school pupil.  It was a letter from Italy, describing one of the theatres there, where Madame Odille Orme was playing ‘Medea.’  I cut out the letter, gave it to Mr. Hargrove, and asked him if it meant my mother.  He told me it did, and advised me to enclose it to her when I wrote.  But I could not, I burned it.  People look down on actresses as if they were wicked or degraded, and for awhile it distressed me very much indeed, but I know there must be good as well as bad people in all professions.  Since then I have been more anxious to become a perfect musician, so that before long I can relieve mother from the necessity of working on the stage.”