“My father can’t be a thief,” she said.
“I am a thief,—your uncle will see that I am punished. And it will be better so,—if only I did not drag you down, smirch your name.”
Her strength,—her readiness to meet the situation grew as she saw his weakness.
“How bad is it, father; have we anything left? Don’t be afraid to tell me. It’s concealment you must avoid. If we haven’t a thing—”
Her tone reassured him; he lifted his head with more courage.
“This house—the place in the country—they are free. They are yours to-day. My investments,”—he hesitated and blinked at the word—“they can not come back to injure you.”
“Then this house and the farm are still ours.”
“They are yours, not mine. I have wasted so much! It was a fortune,—nearly half a million dollars when I began throwing it away.”
“I don’t believe that’s very much. When you haven’t a million you’re,—you’re not in it!” and she laughed. “The loss of anything else isn’t worth crying over. And then, you might have made a great deal more out of it.”
He flinched, knowing how culpable he was; but her generosity and kindness were lifting his spirit.