the scented grasses. Then, half to herself, she said:

“I think I am still loyal to her if I have placed you beside her in my heart. For I have not yet invested you with a passion less innocent than that which burns for her.”

She lifted her head slowly, propping herself up on one arm, and looked intently at me.

“What do you know about me, that you say I am unwomanly and cold?” Her voice was low, but the words rang a little.

“Do not deceive yourself,” she said. “I am fashioned for love as thoroughly as are you — for love sacred or profane. But who am I to dare put on my crown of womanhood? Let me first know myself — let me know what I am, and if I truly have even a right to the very name I wear. Let me see my own mother face to face —