The thorn had pierced deep in Maybelle’s heart, and it almost drove her mad, that letter.
She sought Otho with it, and confessed the failure of her scheme.
“He despises me. I can never—never win him. And I think I hate him now. I would like to wound his heart as he has wounded mine!” she groaned, in her misery.
“Let him go. There are others as well worth winning,” he said, angrily.
“But how am I to win them?” she cried, bitterly. “Listen, Otho: do you know that papa will surely fail next week? The panic has ruined him, and we shall be beggars. Mamma told me all to-day, and she said she had hoped I would have caught a rich husband before now. I could not tell her how hard I have tried and failed. And how cruel it will be to be poor! I would rather die!”
Otho looked at her closely. He had a pale, nervous look, and his eyes gleamed with a sullen fire.
Leaning close to her, he whispered:
“I have a plan to get money, Maybelle. Would you be willing to help me?”
“What could I do?”
“You would have to run a terrible risk, be sure of that. But my nerves are strong as steel, and yours, too, are they not?”