“Oil?” questioned Mary. “You mean oil wells, and that sort of thing?”
“There’ll be wells in time, I presume; just now it’s merely in the ground. I understand it’s quite valuable.”
She went on to explain in detail all she knew. Mary listened silently, head bent and hands absently plucking at the plaiting of her gown. When Mrs. Archer finally ceased speaking, the girl made no comment for a time, but sat quite motionless, with drooping face and nervously moving fingers.
“Did you hear about—about—” she began in an uncertain voice, and then stopped, unable to go on.
“Yes, dear,” returned Mrs. Archer simply. “Bud told me. It’s a—a terrible thing, of course, but I think—” She paused, choosing her words. “You mustn’t spoil your life, my dear, by taking it—too seriously.” 350
Mary turned suddenly and stared at her, surprise battling with the misery in her face.
“Too seriously!” she cried. “How can I possibly help taking it seriously? It’s too dreadful and—and horrible, almost, to think of.”
“It’s dreadful, I admit,” returned the old lady composedly. “But after all, it’s your father’s doings. You are not to blame.”
The girl made a swift, dissenting gesture with both hands. “Perhaps not, in the way you mean. I didn’t do the—stealing.” Her voice was bitter. “I didn’t even know about it. But I—profited. Oh, how could Dad ever have done such an awful thing? When I think of his—his deliberately robbing this man who—who had given his life bravely for his country, I could die of shame!”
Her lips quivered and she buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Archer reached out and patted her shoulder consolingly.