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 keep it a secret from that miserable little town.”

Lydia was sitting stiffly erect, lips parted, fists clenched in her lap. She was frightened, and her eyes were fearfully upon her great-aunt Margaret’s eyes….

“Your father,” said her aunt in a dry, crackling voice, “was an habitual criminal… incorrigible. He died in prison—in California….”

“Oh!…” said Lydia. She stood up swaying. “Oh!… Oh!…” She swayed toward great-aunt Margaret, sank to her knees before the old lady and buried her face in that ample lap. The old lady sat motionless, her hand resting on Lydia’s head—praying for the successful outcome of her operation….

The vagaries, the phenomena, of the mind and heart are amazing, beyond comprehension. Every day we are astounded by some prank of our psychic mechanism—and now Lydia was amazed, confused, nonplussed, ashamed to discover that after the impact had been sustained, her sensations were not of horror, of shame, of self-detestation, but of joy…. Of joy! Her world was tumbled about her ears; the teachings upon which the philosophy of her life was based were a mass of lies…. Family—there had been no family. She had been brought up on lies—on lies which had concealed the family’s