“Father! Father!” she cried, going over to him as he sank upon a chair and putting her hand almost tenderly upon his shoulder. “You have been hard with us all, father; but we will forgive you! Just say that you love us, and that in future you will be more kind.”
“It’s tew late, Marion,” cried the old man, huskily. “There’s no home fer yew tew come back tew now, so it don’t make no diff’rence about your old father! We air goin’ tew the Poor Farm, yewr mother an’ me, an’ I guess she’s right—she sez it’s jedgement upon us!”
Marion Marlowe’s lips trembled, but only with a smile. Her eyes shone through her tears as she gazed steadily at her father.
There was something she must know before she told them the truth about the errand that had brought her back to the mortgaged homestead.
“Father,” she began, sternly, “there is something I must know! If you refuse to tell me, I will never forgive you! What scrape was Samantha’s husband in when you loaned him that five hundred dollars? Tell me the actual truth, father, for I am determined to know it.”
Deacon Marlowe raised his head with the old, stubborn motion that his wife and daughter knew so well, but one look at Marion’s face made his glance waver considerably.
“I can’t tell yew—it’s Tom’s secret,” he began, but Marion interrupted him.
“You must tell me,” she said, firmly, “or I will employ a detective to find out for me.”
Deacon Marlowe’s jaw dropped and his cheeks became almost ashen in color. The word detective to his country ears was synonymous with everything that meant diabolical cleverness.
“Yew wouldn’t dew that!” he began, and stopped. There was something in Marion’s eyes that told him plainly that she would do it.