ut--I have had heavy
expenses, and somehow I didn't seem to have the knack that some men
have. I made one or two investments that didn't turn out well. I
didn't say anything about them to--Ida."

"I sha'n't say a word, father," Maria responded, quickly.

"Well, I thought maybe--if they turned out all right, I might have
something to leave you, but--they didn't. There's never any counting
on those things, and I wasn't on the inside of the market. I thought
they were all right. I meant it for the best."

Maria stroked the gray head, as her mother might have done. "Of
course you did, father," said she. "Now, don't you worry one bit more
about it. You get that tonic. You don't look just right, and you need
something to give you an appetite; and don't you ever have another
thought as far as I am concerned. I have always wanted to teach, or
do something to make myself independent."

"You may marry somebody who will look out for you after father has
gone," half whimpered Harry. His disease and his distress were making
him fairly childish, now he realized a supporting love beside him.

Maria quivered a little. "I shall never marry, father," she said.

Harry laughed a little, even in the midst of his distress. "Well,
dear, we won't worry about that now," he said; "only, if you ever do
marry, I hope you will marry a good, honest man who can take care of
you."

"I never shall marry," Maria said again. There was an odd inflection
in her voice which her father did not understand. Her cheeks burned
hot against his, but it was not due to the modesty of young girlhood,
which flees even that which it secretly desires. Maria was reflecting
upon her horrible deception, how every day and every minute of her
life she was deceiving her father, but she dared not tell him. She
dared less now than ever, in the light of her sudden conviction
concerning his ill-health. Maria had been accustomed so long to
seeing her father look tired and old that the true significance of it
had not struck her. She had not reflected that her father was not in
reality an old man--but scarcely past middle age--and that there must
be some disease to account for his appearance. Now she knew; but
along with the knowledge came the conviction that he must not know
that she had it, that it would only add to his distress. She kissed
him, and took up the evening paper which had fallen from his knees to
the floor.

"Suppose I read to you, father?" she said.

Harr