I inquired about Mr. Colton's condition and was told that he was, or appeared to be, a trifle better. Mrs. Colton was, at last, thanks to the doctor's powders, asleep. Johnson left the room for the moment and I switched to the subject which neither of us had mentioned since the night before, the Louisville and Transcontinental muddle. I explained what had been done and pretended a confidence which I did not feel that everything would end well. She listened, but, it seemed to me, she was not as interested as I expected. At length she interrupted me.
“Suppose we do not talk about it now,” she said. “As I understand it, you—we, that is—have made up our minds. We have decided to do certain things which seem to us right. Right or wrong, they must be done now. I am trying very hard to believe them right and not to worry any more about them. Oh, I CAN'T worry! I can't! With all the rest, I—I—Please let us change the subject. Mr. Paine, I am afraid you must think me selfish. I have said nothing about your own trouble. Father—” she choked on the name, but recovered her composure almost immediately—“Father told me, after his return from your house this morning, that his purchase of the land had become public and that you were in danger of losing your position at the bank.”
I smiled. “That danger is past,” I answered. “I have lost it. Captain Dean gave me my walking papers this morning.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!”
“I am not. I expected it. The wonder is only that it has not happened before. I realized that it was inevitable when I made up my mind to sell. It is of no consequence, Miss Colton.”
“Yes, it is. But Father offered you the position in his employ. He said you refused, but he believed your refusal was not final.”
“He was wrong. It is final.”
“But—”
“I had rather not discuss that, Miss Colton.”
She looked at me oddly, and with a faint smile. “Very well,” she said, after a moment, “we will not discuss it now. But you cannot suppose that either Father or I will permit you to suffer on our account.”