hat St. Clair had done anything wrong; it was a
persecution of his partners, she said; the stock of a customer had
been pledged for his own debt. Jamie understood the offense well
enough. And then, in the evening, he had known that she was soon to
have a child. But with this money all would be forgiven; and David
would go back to New Orleans, where his friends urged him to return,
"in his old profession." Could not Jamie borrow it, even? said
Mercedes.

It was not then, but at the dawn, after a sleepless night, that Jamie
had come to his decision. After all, what was his life, or his future,
yes, or his honor, worth to any one? His memory, when he died, what
mattered it to any one but Mercedes herself? And she would not
remember him long. Was it not a species of selfishness--like his
presumption in loving her--to care so for his own good name? So he had
told Mercedes that he "would arrange it." After her burst of tears and
gratitude, she became anxious about David; she feared he might destroy
himself. So Jamie had put her on the morning train, and promised to
follow that night.

The clock struck six, and the watchman passed by on his rounds. "Still
there?"

"I'm nearly done," said Jamie.

The cash drawer lay beside him; at a glance he saw the bills were
there, sufficient for his purpose. He took up four rolls, each one
having the amount of its contents marked on the paper band. Then he
laid them on the desk again. He opened the day-book to make the
necessary false entry. Which account was least likely to be drawn
upon? Jamie turned the leaves rapidly.

"James Bowdoin's Sons." Not that. "The Maine Lady." He took up the
pen, started to make the entry; then dashed it to the floor, burying
his face in his hands.

He _could_ not do it. The old bookkeeper's whole life cried out
against a sin like that. To falsify the books! Closing the ledger, he
took up the cash drawer and started for the safe. The watchman came in
again.

"Done?" said he.

"Done," said Jamie.

The watchman went out, and Jamie entered the roomy old safe. He put
the ledgers and the cash drawer in their places; but the sudden
darkness blinded his eyes. In it he saw the face of his Mercedes,
still sad but comforted, as he had left her at the train that morning.

He wiped the tears away and tried to think. He looked around the old
vault, where so much money, idle money, money of dead people, lay
mouldering away; and not one dollar of it to save hi