little nearer her. "Never mind about me; but tell me,
Sissy, have you been a good girl since you got off like this? You're
safe and well--have you been good?"

"I took your aunt's money, if you mean that, but I left you my half of
things for it; and anyway, it was you who made me do it."

"Yes, yes," he assented, "'twas my doing; the sin of all you did then
lies at my door. But since then, Sissy?" His look, his whole attitude,
were an eager question, but she looked at him scornfully.

"Of _course_ I've been good. I go to church and say my prayers, and
every one respects me. I worked first in a family, but I didn't let them
call me a servant. Then I got a place in the Grand Hotel. Old Mr.
Hutchins had got lame, so he couldn't see after things, and I could.
I've done it now for six months, and it's a different house. I always do
everything I do well, so we've made money this summer. I'm thinking of
making Mr. Hutchins take me into partnership; he'd rather do it than
lose me. I'm well thought of, Mr. Bates, by everybody, and I'm going to
get rich."

"Rich," he echoed, quietly. He looked now, his mind drawn by hers, at
her fine clothes, and at the luxuriant red hair that was arranged with
artificial display. The painfulness of his breath and his weakness
returned now within his range of feeling.

Without having expected to absorb his mind or knowing that she cared to
do so, she still felt that instant that something was lost to her. The
whole stream of his life, that had been hers since she had entered the
room, was no longer all for her. She pressed on quietly to the business
she had with him, fearing to lose a further chance.

"Look here, Mr. Bates! It's not more than a few hours since I heard you
were here, so I've come to tell you that I'm alive and all right, and
all that I've done that wasn't very nice was your fault; but, look here,
I've something else to say: I don't know why you've come here to see
this old preacher, or who he is, or what you have to do with him; but it
would be cruel and mean of you now, after driving me to do what I did,
to tell the people here about it, and that my name isn't White, you
know. I've very nice friends here, who'd be shocked, and it would do me
harm. I'm not going to accuse you to people of what you've done. I'm
sorry you're ill, and that you've had all the trouble of hunting for me,
and all that; but I've come to ask you now to keep quiet and not say who
I am."

He drew gr