for it! Well, it came to me--in time."

His eyes asked a pitying question.

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "I knew about father. They used to take me to
visit him in the prison. Of course I didn't understand, at first. But
gradually, as I grew older, I began to realize what had happened--to
him and to me. It was then I began to make plans. He would be free,
sometime; he would need a home. Once he tried to escape, with some
other men. A guard shot my father; he was in the prison-hospital a
long time. They let me see him then without bars between, because
they were sure he would die."

"For God's sake," he interrupted hoarsely. "Was there no one--?"

She shook her head.

"That was after my aunt died: I went alone. They watched me closely
at first; but afterward they were kinder. He used to talk about
home--always about home. He meant this house, I found. It was then I
made up my mind to do anything to get the money.... You see I knew he
could never be happy here unless the old wrongs were righted first. I
saw I must do all that; and when, after my uncle's death, I found
that I was rich--really rich, I came here as soon as I could. There
wasn't any time to lose."

She fell silent, her eyes shining luminously under half closed lids.
She seemed unconscious of his gaze riveted upon her face. It was as
if a curtain had been drawn aside by her painful effort. He was
seeing her clearly now and without cloud of passion--in all her
innocence, her sadness, set sacredly apart from other women by the
long devotion of her thwarted youth. An immense compassion took
possession of him. He could have fallen at her feet praying her
forgiveness for his mean suspicions, his harsh judgment.

The sound of hammers on the veranda roof above their heads appeared
to rouse her.

"Don't you think I ought to tell--everybody?" she asked hurriedly.

He considered her question in silence for a moment. The bitterness
against Andrew Bolton had grown and strengthened with the years into
something rigid, inexorable. Since early boyhood he had grown
accustomed to the harsh, unrelenting criticisms, the brutal epithets
applied to this man who had been trusted with money and had
defaulted. Even children, born long after the failure, reviled the
name of the man who had made their hard lot harder. It had been the
juvenile custom to throw stones at the house he had lived in. He
remembered with fresh shame the impish glee with which, in company
with other boy