“Yes, Helga Crane. My mother was his sister, Karen Nilssen. I’ve been away. I didn’t know Uncle Peter had married.” Sensitive to atmosphere, Helga had felt at once the latent antagonism in the woman’s manner.

“Oh, yes! I remember about you now. I’d forgotten for a moment. Well, he isn’t exactly your uncle, is he? Your mother wasn’t married, was she? I mean, to your father?”

“I—I don’t know,” stammered the girl, feeling pushed down to the uttermost depths of ignominy.

“Of course she wasn’t.” The clear, low voice held a positive note. “Mr. Nilssen has been very kind to you, supported you, sent you to school. But you mustn’t expect anything else. And you mustn’t come here any more. It—well, frankly, it isn’t convenient. I’m sure an intelligent girl like yourself can understand that.”

“Of course,” Helga agreed, coldly, freezingly, but her lips quivered. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. She reached the door. There was a second of complete silence, then Mrs. Nilssen’s voice, a little agitated: “And please remember that my husband is not your uncle. No indeed! Why, that, that would make me your aunt! He’s not—”

But at last the knob had turned in Helga’s fumbling hand. She gave a little unpremeditated laugh and slipped out. When she was in the street, she ran. Her only impulse was to get as far away from her uncle’s house, and this woman, his wife, who so plainly wished to dissociate herself from the outrage of her very existence. She was torn with mad fright, an emotion against which she knew but two weapons: to kick and scream, or to flee.

The day had lengthened. It was evening and much colder, but Helga Crane was unconscious of any change, so shaken she was and burning. The wind cut her like a knife, but she did not feel it. She ceased her frantic running, aware at last of the curious glances of passersby. At one spot, for a moment less frequented than others, she stopped to give heed to her disordered appearance. Here a man, well groomed and pleasant-spoken, accosted her. On such occasions she was wont to reply scathingly, but, tonight, his pale Caucasian face struck her breaking faculties as too droll. Laughing harshly, she threw at him the words: “You’re not my uncle.”

He retired in haste, probably thinking her drunk, or possibly a little mad.