"Oh, Cassie, Cassie! I am not reproaching you, my dear girl! But I thought you had gained strength through prayer—such strength that you no longer needed the dreadful drug, for I am led to believe you are using it again."
"Yes, I'm using it," she confessed, almost sullenly.
"Since when?"
"Since you gave me the money in Hartland."
Frank fell back.
"Was that it?" he gasped. "Was that why you wanted the money? You wanted it not to enable you to buy medicine, but——"
"Morphine's medicine for me now. I tell you I had to have it. I couldn't go on that night without it. I knew I'd ruin the play if I did. Don't look at me like that! Why, you look as if I'd committed a crime! I'm not hurting anyone but myself. What if I do hurt myself! I'm no good anyway! I'm only the daughter of a drunken actor, and I might as well be dead as alive! I wish I were dead—I do! I do!"
Then she buried her face in her hands and fell to sobbing, her small body quivering with emotion.
Every sob cut Frank Merriwell through and through.