"I know," Mary answered simply, and with something of the humbleness of a child rebuked by high authority. "He said that to me. But—no, I can't tell you any more."
"That 'but' has told me everything. You sent him away?"
"Yes."
"And I know him well enough to be sure that he has tried to see you again, to justify himself?"
"He has written. I sent back the letter. And he has wanted to speak, but I have never let him. I thought it would be wrong."
"Then, my poor child, did you think it less wrong to send him to his ruin?"
"To his ruin—I?"
"Because you believed him evil, you have roused evil in him, and driven him to evil. I wish to read you no moral lecture on gambling; but for him, for a man of his nature, it is a dangerous and powerful drug if taken to kill pain. I have come to ask you to save him, since I believe only you can do it."
"I?" she echoed, bitterly. "But I am a gambler! There's gambler's blood in my veins. I was warned, and wouldn't listen. Now I know there's no use struggling, so I go on. How can I save any one from a thing I do myself—a thing I feel I shall keep on doing?"
"Because he loves you, you can save him; and because you love him, too."