"Papa," she said, "will you take me home again? I think you must, if you will. There seems to be no place for me. If you will let me stay with you until I have time to think."
The professor laid his hand upon hers and held it closely.
"My dear," he said, "my home is yours. It has never seemed so much mine since you left it; but this may not be so bad as you think. I do not know how much we may rely upon Richard's hopes,—they are not always to be relied upon,—but it appears that he has hopes of retrieving some of his losses through a certain speculation he seems to have regarded as a failure, but which suddenly promises to prove a success."
"I have never thought of being poor," said Bertha; "I do not think I should know how to be poor. But, somehow, it is not the money I am thinking of; that will come later, I suppose. I scarcely seem to realize yet"—
Her voice and her hand shook, and she clung to him more closely.
"Everything has gone wrong," she said, wildly; "everything must be altered. No one is left to care for me but you. No one must do it but you. Now that Richard has gone, it is not Philip who must be kind to me—not Philip—Philip last of all!"
"Not Philip?" he echoed. "Not Philip?"
And, as he said it, they both heard feet ascending the steps at the front door.
"My child," said the professor, "that is Philip now. He spoke of calling in on me on his way home. Perhaps he has been anxious at finding me out so late. I do not understand you—but must I go and send him away?"
"No," she answered, shuddering a little, as if with cold, "it is for me to send him away. But I must tell him first about the money. I am glad he has come. I am glad another night will not pass without his knowing. I think I want to speak to him alone—if you will send him here, and wait for a little while in the library."