In regard to Adele Lowenstein, I send you the papers and copied reports, as you request; but let me say to you, deal with her as mercifully as possible. There should be much good in a girl who would go to prison for two long years, rather than utter one word disloyal to her counterfeiter father. Those who knew her best, prior to that affair, consider her a victim rather than a sinner. Time may have hardened her nature, but, if there are any extenuating circumstances, consider how she became what she is, and temper justice with mercy.
"There," I say, as I fold away the letter, "that's a whole sermon, coming from our usually unsympathetic Chief. Mr. Harris, I wish you would preach another of the same sort to the Traftonites."
Still the silence continues. Mr. Harris looks serious and somewhat uneasy. Mrs. Harris furtively wipes away a tear with the corner of her apron. Louise Barnard sits moveless for a time, then rises, and draws her light Summer scarf about her shoulders with a resolute gesture.
"I am going to see Adele," she says, turning toward the door.
Mr. Harris rises hastily. He is a model of theological conservatism.
"But, Louise,—ah, don't be hasty, I beg. Really, it is not wise."
"Yes, it is," she retorts. "It is wise, and it is right. I have eaten her bread; I have called myself her friend; I shall not abandon her now."
"Neither shall I!" cries Mrs. Harris, bounding up with sudden energy. "I'll go with you, Louise."
"But, my dear," expostulates Mr. Harris, "if you really insist, I will go first; then, perhaps—"