“Preposterous! What could Prince Morrell be thinking of? Why should I support you, Miss?”
“Why, that don’t matter so much,” remarked Helen, calmly. “I can earn my keep, I reckon. If there’s nothing to do in the house I’ll go and find me a job and pay my board. But, you see, dad thought I ought to have the refining influences of city life. Good idea; eh?”
“A very ridiculous idea! A very ridiculous idea, indeed!” cried Mr. Starkweather. “I never heard the like.”
“Well, you see, there’s another reason why I came, too, Uncle,” Helen said, blandly.
“What’s that?” demanded the gentleman, startled again.
“Why, dad told me everything when he died. He—he told me how he got into trouble before he left New York—’way back there before I was born,” spoke Helen, softly. “It troubled dad all his life, Uncle Starkweather. Especially after mother died. He feared he had not done right by her and me, after all, in running away when he was not guilty——”
“Not guilty!”
“Not guilty,” repeated Helen, sternly. “Of course, we all know that. Somebody got all that money the firm had in bank; but it was not my father, sir.”
She gazed straight into the face of Mr. Starkweather. He did not seem to be willing to look at her in return; nor could he pluck up the courage to deny her statement.
“I see,” he finally murmured.