Grim sorrow seemed to stalk in the trail of the rich.
She could not recall one moment of real, unfeigned happiness among her family.

The only time she could remember her father smiling or chuckling was at some one else's misfortune, or over some cruel thing he had said himself.
Her sister's joy over some little social triumph--usually at the cost of the humiliation of another.
Her brother's cheeriness over some smart stroke of business in which another firm was involved to their cost.
Parasites all! The memory of her mother was the only link that bound her to her childhood.

The gentle, uncomplaining spirit of her: the unselfish abnegation of her: the soul's tragedy of her--giving up her life at the altar of duty, at the bidding of a hardened despot.
All Angela's childhood came back in a brief illuminating flash.

The face of her one dear, dead companion--her mother--glowed before her.
How her mother would have cared for and tended, and worshipped a man even as the one lying riddled on that bed of suffering! All the best in Angela was from her mother.

All the resolute fighting quality was from her father.