She paused and looked at him; her eyes grew full of pain; the pain reached agony point.
“You said it?”
“I did worse,” said the man. He stood up, folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at her. “I did worse, and to tell you is my punishment. I not only sent that cablegram, but I wrote an account of the mine, a false account, false as my false heart was, Sibyl, and I signed it with my name, for the gold I said was in the mine was not there.”
“Why did you do it, father?”
“Because I was a scoundrel.”
“What’s that?” asked Sibyl.
“A bad man.”
“No,” said the child, “no, you was always my most perfect——”
“You thought so, darling; you were wrong. Even when I went to Queensland I was far from that. I could not bid you good-by before I went, because of the sin which I was about to commit. I committed the sin, I dropped away from honor, I let goodness go. I did that which could never, never, under any circumstances, be worth doing, for there is nothing worth evil, there is nothing worth sin, I see it now.”
“Then you are sorry?”