"Mother said she had put everything right," he began. "I guess she was mistaken."
"Your mother does not understand, neither do you," she replied seriously. "Nothing can be put right until my father is restored to honour and position."
"But why should you punish me because my father fails to regard the matter as we do?" demanded Jefferson rebelliously.
"Why should I punish myself—why should we punish those nearest and dearest?" answered Shirley gently, "the victims of human injustice always suffer where their loved ones are tortured. Why are things as they are—I don't know. I know they are—that's all."
The young man strode nervously up and down the room while she gazed listlessly out of the window, looking for the cab that was to carry her away from this house of disappointment. He pleaded with her:
"I have tried honourably and failed—you have tried honourably and failed. Isn't the sting of impotent failure enough to meet without striving against a hopeless love?" He approached her and said softly: "I love you Shirley—don't drive me to desperation. Must I be punished because you have failed? It's unfair. The sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the children."
"But they are—it's the law," said Shirley with resignation.
"The law?" he echoed.
"Yes, the law," insisted the girl; "man's law, not God's, the same unjust law that punishes my father—man's law which is put into the hands of the powerful of the earth to strike at the weak."
She sank into a chair and, covering up her face, wept bitterly. Between her sobs she cried brokenly: