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Rh hearth with her scrapbooks and photograph cases, rapidly emptying them. The fire was laid on the hearth, ready for lighting, and Jane hastened over to her mother to ask what she was doing. Mrs. Garden looked up at Jane, and then at Florimel, with an expression on her face so new and different that both the girls were struck by it.

“I’m going to burn it all,” she said, indicating her trophies with a comprehensive gesture.

“Madrina! What for? Indeed you’re not!” exclaimed Jane.

“This is what took me from you when you were babies; this is what kept me from you all your lovely childhood, which can never be recalled; this is what made me happy while you thought me dead. I hate it all, suddenly! If Mary had died”—she dropped her voice, glancing toward the bed, but speaking fiercely in spite of the muffled tone—“if Mary had died, and I remembered how short a time I had known her, lovely, sweet, dear Mary, for the sake of this!” Mrs. Garden wrung her hands, unable to express her horror of what had been her pride. “There’s nothing in it all, children; there’s nothing in anything on earth that draws one away from right and beautiful motherhood.