Pray You, Sir, Whose Daughter?. Gardener Helen Hamilton

      Gertrude kissed her on eyes and lips. "Poor mamma, poor mamma," she said softly, "I wonder if I shall do the same!" For the first time since she entered the room, the daughter appeared to appeal for, rather than to offer, sympathy and strength. Her mother was quick to respond.

      "If you never learn to love anyone very much, daughter, you may hope to keep your self-respect. If you do you will sell it all – for his. And – and – "

      "Lose both at last?" asked the girl, hoarsely. Katherine Foster closed her eyes for a moment to shut out her daughter's face.

      "Will you ever have had his?" she asked, with her eyes still closed. "Do men ever truly respect their dupes or their inferiors? Do you truly respect anyone to whom you are willing to deny truth, honor, dignity? Is it respect, or only a tender, pitying love we offer an intellectual cripple – one whose mental life we know to be, and desire to keep, distinctly below our own? Do – " She opened her eyes and they rested on an onyx clock. She laughed. "Come, daughter," she said, "it is time to dress for the Historical Club's annual dinner. You know I am one of the guests of honor to-day. They honor me so truly that I am not permitted to join the club or be ranked as a useful member at all. My work they accept – flatter me by praising in a lofty way; but I can have no status with them as an historian – I am a woman!"

      Gertrude sprang to her feet. Her eyes flashed fire.

      "Don't go! I wouldn't allow them to – " The door opened softly. Mr. Foster's face appeared.

      "Why, dearie, aren't you ready for the Historical Club? I wouldn't have you late for anything. You know I, as the vice-president, am to respond to the toast on, 'Woman: the highest creation, and God's dearest gift to mankind.' It wouldn't look well if you were not there."