But she thought of them as most distinguished and accomplished gentlefolk, beautiful women environed by spacious estates, by exquisite old linen and silver and jewels, and dashing cavaliers rising in gay gallantry alike to the conquest of feminine hearts, or to their country’s defense.  She bore herself proudly, as became their descendants.  She brought the gaze of her honest blue eyes frankly to all the other eyes in the world, a lady was unembarrassed in the presence of her equals, a lady was always gracious to her inferiors.

Her own father had been less elevated in rank than his wife, yet Susan could think of him with genuine satisfaction.  He was only a vague memory to her now, this bold heart who had challenged a whole family’s opposition, a quarter of a century before, and carried off Miss Sue Rose Ralston, whose age was not quite half his forty years, under her father’s very eyes.

When Susan was born, four years later, the young wife was still regarded by her family as an outcast.  But even the baby Susan, growing happily old enough to toddle about in the Santa Barbara rose-garden that sheltered the still infatuated pair, knew that Mother was supremely indifferent to the feeling toward her in any heart but one.  Martin Brown was an Irishman, and a writer of random essays.  His position on a Los Angeles daily newspaper kept the little family in touch with just the people they cared to see, and, when the husband and father was found dead at his desk one day, with his wife’s picture over the heart that had suddenly and simply ceased to serve him, there were friends all about to urge the beautiful widow to take up at least a part of his work, in the old environment.

But Sue Rose was not quite thirty, and still girlish, and shrinking, and helpless.  Beside, there was Lou’s house to go to, and five thousand dollars life insurance, and three thousand more from the sale of the little home, to meet the immediate need.  So Susan and her mother came up to Mrs. Lancaster, and had a very fine large room together, and became merged in the older family.  And the eight thousand dollars lasted a long time, it was still paying little bills, and buying birthday presents, and treating Alfie to a “safety bicycle,” and Mary Lou to dancing lessons when, on a wet afternoon in her thirteenth summer, little Susan Brown came in from school to find that Mother was very ill.

“Just an ugly, sharp pain, ducky, don’t look so scared!” said Mother, smiling gallantly, but writhing under the bed covers.  “Dr. Forsythe has been here, and it’s nothing at all.  Ah-h-h!” said Mother, whimsically, “the poor little babies!  They go through this, and we laugh at them, and call it colic!  Never-laugh-at-another-baby, Sue!  I shan’t.  You’d better call Auntie, dear.  This—­this won’t do.”

A day or two later there was talk of an operation.  Susan was told very little of it.  Long afterward she remembered with certain resentment the cavalier manner in which her claims were dismissed.  Her mother went to the hospital, and two days later, when she was well over the wretchedness of the ether, Susan went with Mary Lou to see her, and kissed the pale, brave little face, sunk in the great white pillows.