“Your mother was a true Malincourt.  She could not bend, and when things went awry, she broke.

“You must never think hardly of her, for she had been brought up in that atmosphere of almost desperate pride which is too frequently the curse of the poverty-stricken aristocrat.  She made a ghastly mistake, and paid for it afterwards every day of her life.  And she was urged into it by her father, who declined to recognize me in any way, and by her mother, who made her life at home a simple hell—­as a clever society woman can make of any young girl’s life if she chooses.

“Just before she died, she sent for me and gave you into my care, begging me to shield you from spoiling your life as she had spoiled hers.

“I’ve done what I could.  You are at least independent.  No one can drive you with the spur of poverty into selling yourself, as she was driven.  But there are a hundred other rocks in life against which you may wreck your happiness, and remember, in the long run, you sink or swim by your own force of character.

“And when love comes to you, as it will come,—­for no woman with your eyes and your mouth ever yet lived a loveless life!—­never forget that it is the biggest thing in the world, the one altogether good and perfect gift.  Don’t let any twopenny-halfpenny considerations of worldly advantage influence you, nor the tittle-tattle of other folks, and even if it seems that something insurmountable lies between you and the fulfillment of love, go over it, or round it, or through it!  If it’s a real love, your faith must be big enough to remove the mountains in the way—­or to go over them.

“The package of letters you will find in the bureau were those your mother wrote to me during the few short weeks we belonged to each other.  I’m a sentimental old fool, and I’ve never been able to bring myself to burn them.  Will you do this for me?

“In the little velvet case you will find her miniature, which I give to you.  It is very like her—­and like you, too, for you resemble her wonderfully in appearance.  Often, to look at you has made my heart ache; sometimes it almost seemed as if the years had rolled back and Pauline herself stood before me.

“And now that the order for release is on its way to me, it is rather wonderful to reflect that in a few weeks—­a few days, perhaps—­I shall be seeing her again. . . .

“Good-bye, little pal of mine.  We’ve had some good times together, haven’t we?

“Your devoted, PATRICK.”

Sara sat very still, the letter clasped in her hand.  She had always secretly believed that some long-dead romance lay behind Patrick’s bachelorhood, but she had never suspected that her own mother had been the woman he had loved.

The knowledge illumined all the past with a fresh light, investing it with a tender, reminiscent sentiment.  It was easy now to understand the almost idyllic atmosphere Patrick had infused into their life together.  Sara recognized it as the outcome of a love and fidelity as beautiful and devoted as it is rare.  Patrick’s love for her mother had partaken of the enduring qualities of the great passions of history.  Paolo and Francesca, Abelard and Heloise—­even they could have known no deeper, no more lasting love than that of Patrick Lovell for Pauline.